


Via Purifico

by madamerioulette



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Amputation, Angst, Body Horror, Explicit Language, Graphic Description of Corpses, Harpy Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Manipulation, Medical Experimentation, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Smoking & Shotgunning, Werewolf Jesse McCree, alternative universe, death mention, monster Widowmaker | Amélie Lacroix
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-17 14:14:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 150,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8147125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madamerioulette/pseuds/madamerioulette
Summary: They find Jesse in the dead of winter under the decaying trunk of a tree, hollowed and long forgotten.They find Gabriel at his grave where peace settles like the gentle first fall of winter’s snow.They find answers written in the blood of their forefathers that stain their names.They travel the same road.---AU where Overwatch protects the supernatural, the Shimada Clan hunts monsters, and the dead would like to stay dead for once. Please heed the tags!





	1. I. The Enemy of My Enemy

They find him in the dead of winter, brutal and unrelenting as it is in Hanamura. The snow lies thick across the ground, blanketing all color and sound in an icy grip. The eldest Shimada son revels in the winter, enjoying the quiet solitude of the season without the low rumble of the people shopping at the market nearby, the softness of Shimada castle and its inhabitants. The youngest Shimada complains, more-so during the winter than ever in the summer if anyone can believe it, and spends his lazy days wrapped in blankets and drinking soup. Winter makes it easier to hunt, however, neither can argue that and so it is their busiest season.

Under the decaying trunk of a tree, hollowed and long forgotten. He’s spilling blood all over the perfect white snow, a bright red stain on an otherwise clean canvas. There’s too much and it’s cold, he’s tired and needs rest, so he ducks in under the decaying trunk of a tree, hollowed but newly remembered. It’s a tight fit, the body large even without the few inches of fluff and fur, but he squeezes in with his left arm clutched against his chest. He won’t last long here, he knows it. If his pursuer doesn’t follow, a hunter might, and if the hunters don’t claim him the winter chill will. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of the dead of winter, brutal and unrelenting as it is in Hanamura.

The crunch of snow beneath claw-toed boots, quiet as can be but loud in the noiseless forest. They follow the blood, steps slowing as they reach the tree. The sun is setting, casting long, thin shadows that swallow the hollow of the decaying tree. Everything is still. The footsteps and the boy they belong to, and the wounded animal hiding from the world. There is a pool of red seeping out from the hollow, the copper tang twisting the otherwise crisp air. The boy takes a step forward and the rotting tree trunk growls in response, a raw noise akin to panic.

This is not the creature they’re looking for, he knows that much, but it’s a creature all the same. Wounded, cornered, and in the way. But there’s a softness on his face as he crouches low, hand easing away from the short sword across his lower back. He brings a hand up to his ear and speaks, quiet and calm.

“Hanzo.” The earpiece is silent but for a moment before all he gets in response is a soft affirmative huff. “I found something. It’s wounded.”

That peaks interest, coaxes more than just a sound from Hanzo. “ _The harpy?_ ”

“No.” Harpies don’t growl like this, he wants to say. “A victim, maybe.”

“ _Leave it._ ”

The eldest Shimada son revels in the winter, personifies it on occasion. The youngest Shimada complains about it, he is the warmth of summer.

“But - ”

“ _Genji_.”

He knows what his brother is thinking as it goes unsaid; bait.

They’ve been hunting it for a while, this harpy. A dark black ink stain on many lives, elusive as it is dangerous. It took Hanzo’s legs. It took neighbors’ lives. It’ll take more, and this unlucky victim hiding under the decaying trunk of a tree, hollowed and stained, will be another. It’s as personal as it is professional, and it’s unfortunate that that which hides will become the needed bait because Genji truly has nothing against it. He gets up from his crouched position slowly and the tree trunk growls again, a wounded sound. This time he takes a step back, and then another, and one more until he feels safe enough to turn his back and climb a tree several yards from the rotting trunk.

The sun sets and the cold settles thickly in the air. Genji pulls a thermal mask up to his nose, rubs his hands together, curls in tighter against himself as he balances precariously atop a branch. The snow almost glows with how stark white it is, but the blood leaves dark patches of shadow as it spreads despite the soft light from the moon above. He watches the tree, the dark hole that houses a wounded thing, he watches the sky lit by the waning moon and twinkling stars. He listens for the sound of wings, a blood curdling screech, of twigs breaking or branches snapping. He hears the soft but labored panting of the thing inside the dark hole that houses it.

It’s been eight years since Genji began officially hunting with his brother, ten since he started sneaking out with him on missions. They even each other out, both at home but more importantly in the field. Hanzo is level-headed and logical, planned and knowing in his ways, Genji acts as his heart does in swift, uncalculated motions. Hanzo is stiff and set in his ways and Genji bends with the direction of the wind. Hanzo knows the price of things and is willing to pay, Genji knows too and stubbornly fights against it. Hanzo does what is expected of him, Genji’s getting a little too old not to. They balance the scales, their flaws and perfections and all the inbetweens.

But Genji will always and forever be impatient.

It starts as an itch, dull and beneath his skin as a reminder to move, to fidget to keep warm but to also keep busy. He idly rubs his hands together, gloved and still chilled, readjusts himself on the tree branch once, twice, three times and then once more for good measure. The itch crawls over his skin as the moon rises, peeking between the treetops. It’s not the only thing that's peeking. The black dot of a snout leaves the shadows of the dying tree, twitching as it sniffs its surroundings, searching. Smelling for him, or maybe another?

No, the unmistakable shine of eyes reflecting the pale light go to him up on his perch, staring and sniffing. Genji fidgets, letting his legs dangle over either side of the branch and stares back. The eyes blink once, twice, three times and then once more before tilting a little and Genji tilts his head back in a friendly manner. There’s the soft sound of a chuff, the snow dusting off into the air and Genji mimics the noise, pulling down his mask to let his breath dance in icy whirls. The creature lets out a whine, raw and pained and unmistakable in the quiet night, and Genji stills.

In all the eight -- ten -- years he’s been doing this, not once have they ever encountered another creature that isn’t on their radar. Not alive, anyway. He knows what he’s suppose to do, Hanzo told him.

_Leave it._

He knows what he’s _suppose_ to do, but Genji is impatient and fidgety and a little bit of a soft soul when it comes down to it and he just can’t _leave it._

Genji lowers himself off the branch, slowly and as quietly as he can afford. When his clawed feet touch the ground with a soft, sinking crunch he notices the snout has retreated back into the shadows but the eyes still stare, wide and ever-watching. He stares back for a while before crouching slightly and walking forward.

Each step is calculated, one step one breath one beat of his heart, one step one breath one beat of his heart. One step - it blinks - one breath - it chuffs - one beat of his heart - it _moves_. Genji stills. He is approaching, whether beast or human, a wounded creature. The scent of a hunter clings to Genji, carries it in his footsteps, shines in his eyes. Whatever is in there, it fears just as Genji, to a degree, fears. It doesn’t leave the sanctuary he’s build in a rotting fortress, but it shifts uncomfortably under the scrutiny of Genji’s stare.

Hanzo would kill him tenfold if he knew what Genji was about to do.

With a steady hand he moves to his back, past the bulk of his sheathed blade and to the strap holding it, to the knot that releases easily as he pulls. He takes the short sword and gently places it on the snow next to him. His fingers move to the strap across his chest next, holding his second weapon across his back until he undoes the latch with a small _snip_. The blade is placed on the opposite side of his short sword. While he is far from unarmed -- Shimadas are strong no matter the weapon, be it swords, bows, or their own two hands -- he is far less dangerous than he was a moment ago. The shifting within the tree stops, but the eyes never leave him.

“I do not wish to harm you,” Genji says, voice quieted by the mask. He speaks in Japanese first, and when he gets nothing in response he tries again in English with hands raised, open palmed and vulnerable. The half growl, half whine he receives in return is somewhat promising.

Genji takes another step forward, one breath, one beat of his heart. The creature only stares so he continues forward in his same, rhythmic pattern afraid to go any faster, any slower. He stops again when the thick smell of blood hits his nose, feet sinking a little too easily into the red ice. Genji looks down as the red soaks a little into his boot, up again at the pale eyes. Eyes like a full moon.

A hand extends, bravely. The armor is light, pliable, easily crushed between two powerful jaws. But there is no retaliation, only trying trust as Genji’s still very whole hand stays. The mound shifts within the tree, the smell of it adding to the nauseating scent. Genji holds his breath, but not because of the smell. It moves away from his crumbling castle and towards him. The movements are sluggish, not that of a lumbering beast but that of a dying one. It is scared but also, in some strange way accepting. If Genji were to take a swing at him now it would be of his own foolish undoing.

It casts a heavy shadow, as if that from the hollow moved with him. A mound of fur, rows of too big teeth, claws gleaming in the moonlight; a wolf. A worg, he thinks at first, but the eyes are all wrong, all human. A werewolf, but nothing like the ones he’s hunted. There’s a lot of human in this one, not yet gone to the way of the wilds, only frayed at the nerves and biting at his ankles. Scared.

Even crouched the mass towers over Genji and he feels the need to straighten himself just to look it in the eye, but he reframes. Instead he retracts his hand and eyes the arm held against the beast’s chest. The fur there is matted, coated in both fresh and dried blood, the arm itself torn to near shreds and dripping. Genji reaches out towards it, a mistake. The beast retracts, a full body movement, halfway back into his hiding place.

“I just want to get a look at it,” he says in a quiet voice, a small voice. His hand pulls back a little.

Its lips curl upwards, eyes staring at his hands. Don’t touch is the expression. Genji’s hands go to rest at his sides, and only then does the creature move forward again, arm slowly uncurling from his chest. It’s shredded from the elbow down, muscle and flesh alike torn to ribbons in rows of three. The wounds are deep, some down to the bone, and festering despite the freshness of it. Genji’s brow furrows at the sight, at the familiarity of it.

Genji is twenty again, waiting outside Shimada Castle for his brother and father to come home from a hunt. The harpy. He's excited and anxious and bouncing on his heels in the ankle deep snow; he's never seen a harpy before. The excitement bubbles to an abrupt halt when he sees Hanzo, when he _hears_ Hanzo, and Father is yelling at Genji to fetch the family doctor. But he's frozen in place, as if the snow around his ankles have closed around him, staring. He's never seen Hanzo like this, a mess of tears and bitten off sobs as he buries his face into their father’s tunic, shaking down to the very bone and the _blood_ . His _legs._ Torn to shreds, ribbons of flesh and the wounds fester with a black liquid that mixes like oil in the blood. Their father shakes Genji from his revery violently, and then he's tripping, slipping on the snow and ice as he sprints to fetch the family doctor. Between the front gates of Shimada Castle and the front door of the doctor’s home within Genji broke out into tears and hiccuping sobs that break apart his frantic words as he tries to explain. He's never seen Hanzo like this and it scares him, but more than that -- he's never seen wounds quite like those.

There's a rough growl in his ears and Genji snaps back to the present. He looks up at the beast, then back at its arm.

“A harpy?” He asks in almost a whisper.

The beast’s eyes widen, lips upturned in disgust as anger fills its entire shaking being. He'll take that as a yes.

Slowly, Genji makes a movement to untie his orange sash around his waist and holds it between both hands. He gestures towards the beast’s arm and it cocks his head to the side, curling away again.

“You need to stop the blood flow or you will bleed out,” Genji explains. “It will not heal.”

He moves forward again and it earns him a warning growl. There isn't much he can do to make himself seem any more harmless; his weapons are a good meter behind him and the werewolf would most certainly make a grab at him if he tried anything. Genji makes another pass but the beast snaps its jaws at him to threaten, nothing more. He huffs a loud sigh.

“You _will_ bleed out if you do not--”

“ _Genji._ ”

Hanzo’s voice on the intercom is loud and abrupt and makes them both jolt in surprise. Genji takes a moment to put a finger to his mouth and shush the beast before responding.

“Brother?”

“ _Any luck?_ ”

Another pause as he looks up at the beast, eyes like a full moon staring wide-eyed at him.

“I am always lucky, brother.” The wink is optional and Hanzo clearly hears it in his voice as he sighs into the earpiece. “But there is no sign of it.”

“ _I have met the same fate._ ” There is a thick weariness in his voice. “ _We should return home._ ”

“I will see you at the rendezvous point then.”

Hanzo responds with an affirmative grunt and nothing more, the conversation finished. Genji slides his attention from his earpiece to the wolf beast, staring at him wide-eyed. He doesn't want to leave it here with such a wound, so similar to that of years past, he knows what will become of it if it isn't taken care of. But Genji can't just bring it home like some stray dog; Hanzo would throw a fit, and the Elders? He doesn't even want to think about what the esteemed Elders would do.

Genji sets his orange sash down onto the snow, the redness of it an oddly satisfying contrast.

“Use this to tie off the wounded area,” he explains, pointing just above his own elbow. “About right here.”

There's a strange recognition in its eyes, something that flashes, something human. Genji doesn't have time to figure out what it is, Hanzo will be suspicious if he's late.

Slowly, he makes his way back to his weapons; one step, one breath, one beat of his heart. The long sword is first, slung around his back snuggly, then the short sword tied along his lower back. Not once does he take his eyes off the beast, nor the beast’s eyes on him. Genji takes a few more steps backwards before turning his back on it and the decaying trunk of the tree, hollowed and red.

The wind nips at him as he rushes towards their rendezvous point, carrying a sound akin to a whine, low and raw.

 

⭐️

 

Hanamura in the morning is a Hanamura waking up, quiet and calm and drizzled with shopkeepers opening their storefronts and errand boys zipping between them to finish off their chores and the local group of elderly women who enjoy their morning walks despite the snow or high winds or burning sun, eager to spoil those errand boys. It is Hanzo’s favorite time of day as even in the Shimada household it is quiet.

He spends most of his morning meditating on his porch, tea cooling and incense lit in front of him as he positions himself in the lotus form atop a small cushion. Genji has stated, when the stars align and he's even up this early, that he looks most relaxed and at ease during his morning meditation. Hanzo has his hair down and unbrushed, the tips of it tickling his sleeves whenever the wind blows. It disturbs the wind chimes hanging from the overhang, creating a gentle sound. Below, on the first floor, Hanzo can hear the staff shuffling about and waking, preparing breakfast and sweeping snow off the walkways and feeding the koi fish that are always moved indoors as their garden ponds freeze over in the winter. It's pleasant, Hanzo thinks.

“Hanzo!”

And just like that, the stars have aligned.

Hanzo gradually opens his eyes and stares at Genji, awake and dressed, through the slits in the railings.

“Yes?” He can't keep the tired sigh that ends the sentence away.

“Good morning,” he grins, wide and youthful and mischievous as he balances on the balls of his heels.

And Hanzo can't help but smile a little. Since their father died but only a handful of years ago, he and Genji have found little things together to take joy in. They are different, opposites in so many ways, but brothers all the same and the only family they have is each other. This, Genji bright and awake and wanting _something_ as the sun just barely peeks over the horizon, dancing light over his obnoxious green locks of hair and igniting mischief in his eyes, is something Hanzo secretly loves. It's a boyish charm that he should've grown out of years ago but has stuck regardless of their lifestyle, and as annoying as he can be sometimes -- as warranted by all younger siblings everywhere -- Hanzo can't find it in himself to crush it.

A hunter’s life is one of loss, as short-lived as it is adventurous, and there's so much -- _too much_ \-- life in Genji. Father praised them for it in Hanzo’s youth. Now only Hanzo quietly, wordlessly praises Genji for it.

“Good morning,” Hanzo replies warmly, closing his eyes again.

“Have you finished your morning meditation?”

And his eyes are open again, rolling up and around and biting back the urge to say _Does it look as if I have_?

“No….”

“Can you hurry up and finish?”

“And why am I being rushed?” Hanzo moves to take his cooled tea, sipping at it as he watches his brother over the cup.

The grin spreads. “The old ladies are at the front gates asking for us. They want to _preen_.”

To oppose Genji’s amused grin, Hanzo frowns. They always do this after they've come home from a hunt, whether successful or not, offering gifts and kinds words. Many words, unrelenting and long winded and gods have mercy Hanzo really didn't want to spend his morning entertaining. The look on his face must've been twisted enough for Genji to see it from the ground level, because he can hear muffled laughter coming from behind his hand.

“Can you… stall?” He sighs.

“ _No_!” The laughter is gone and he's met with a scowl when the hand disappears. “The last time you said that, you never showed up. I had to listen to old war stories and look at pictures of their married grandkids by myself.”

Hanzo chuckles. “Brother, you know I had to attend a meeting.”

No he hadn't.

“No you didn't,” Genji pouts. “ _Married_ grandkids, Hanzo.”

He laughs again, louder this time so that it carries. Lifting himself from the pillow, Hanzo moves to the railings, brushing off the snow that's accumulated on the very edge before leaning against it. There's no ignoring the incredulous look he's getting from Genji, arms folded across his chest and his hips cocked dramatically to one side as he pouts up angrily at his brother.

“If you stall them for thirty minutes, I'll treat us to some Rikimaru for dinner,” Hanzo attempts to bargain.

“Fifteen minutes.”

“Twenty-five and dessert.”

Genji opens his mouth, his expression still firmly defiant before softening for just a moment, pausing. Hanzo knows he's triumphant, but doesn't dare show it quite yet.

“Twenty minutes.”

That's about as good as it's going to get, he knows it. “I'll be down in twenty minutes then.”

“If you're late, I'm bringing up embarrassing stories about you!” Genji calls up as he finally sees Hanzo’s smug look of triumph.

He’ll do it too, Hanzo knows. There's been a handful of times Genji has gotten his sweet albeit petty revenge on Hanzo by bringing up embarrassing stories in front of elders, business partners, _suitors_. He's relentless, but Hanzo waves him off as he returns indoors, taking his meditation into the privacy of his room.

The tea and incense are set on the beau, the pillow tossed onto the bed as he sheds his clothes to dress for the day. Something casual, he thinks as he rummages through the closet. They won't have work today, their people are out in the field collecting information on their years long bounty, and Hanzo likes to relax if only for the first day of returning home from a hunt. He opts for something light colored, a pale blue base accented with crisp whites, and his usual long, fur collared coat to go over it. Setting them down neatly onto the futon, Hanzo sits down and begins his small, but daily ritual.

The prosthetics have become a part of him, no longer shameful and only sometimes a hassle. The hassle being the pointed edges snagging on clothes sometimes, or Genji magnetizing messages on them in the middle of the night. It’s been years, but sometimes he still feels the phantom limb every now and again, loses his footing during training only to brush it off as a misstep. It’s much less severe than it had been at first, as time often heals most, but as he sets them aside and runs his fingers over the smoothed, healed skin of his knee, Hanzo wonders.

He’s twenty-two again, but can just barely remember the gripping pain, doesn’t _want_ to remember the gripping pain. The memory of his voice is foreign to him, warbled with sobs into his father’s tunic, body shaking as his father rumbles an order to Genji. He peeks out from the sopping wet mess of his tears to see his little brother standing there, frozen, eyes glued to him. There’s something in his eyes that day, brown mixed with a flash of green, that Hanzo even now can’t name. Something changes in him, something brief and small but it ignites and Hanzo has never been able to stop seeing it. The two weeks he spends bedridden are a blur, a mixture of too much pain and too many faces and not enough sleep. They amputate, they build him new legs, and he’s bedridden again only a little more mobile until his therapy sets in. It’s those weeks he remembers the most, not because of the frustration of relearning to walk at twenty-two, or the phantom pain that rips him from his sleep, but Genji. It’s in the way he talks to Hanzo, without pity but something else, something he couldn’t name then. It’s in the way he presents himself, with his still too obnoxious green hair but his straighter stance and attentive gaze when a meeting is called by the Elders. It’s in the way he practices and trains, harsh and strong and angry. He takes the business with a seriousness he once lacked, and while Hanzo is glad he’s taking initiative and responsibility, he isn’t sure he likes the reason it’s pushed him.

Hanzo reels back from the memory as he palms the smooth stub of his leg. He's gotten over it; he can walk, he's alive, he's still a capable killer and the best hunter in Japan so there's worse places he can be. Like an urn settled between Mother and Father. Genji has softened a little, but Hanzo knows the truth of it.

_“I will tear it to shreds” Genji says through hot tears one night, sitting next to Hanzo on his balcony. “I will hurt it as it has hurt you and mount its head on our foyer wall.”_

_“How barbaric,” he teases, trying to make light._

_But Genji only stares at him, face wet with tears and as he sniffles, wiping his nose on the back of his hand, he looks reminiscent of himself ten years prior. Wailing in the garden pagoda because he tripped and fell and scraped his knee, a dusting of skin and just the barest hints of blood. But he never swore to kill the pagoda or the floorboards that dealt him the blow, never such passionate anger in his eyes as he has now._

_“Little brother….” Hanzo pulls an arm around his shoulders and tucks him in close, his tears staining his robe instead._

_It takes Hanzo years before he realizes that Genji doesn't cry for him or his injuries, but out of fear of losing him._

The prosthetics attach easily enough with a sharp _click_ when they settle into place. Hanzo stands, bending each knee first, then his ankle joints as if stretching them. He rolls the balls of his feet up, balancing on his tiptoes and back on his heels before he huffs in satisfaction.

He's made Genji wait long enough, he thinks with a smug little smirk.

 

They are ruthless, unmerciful even, in their preening. A pinch of the cheek here, a hair ruffle there, a tweak of the nose and the smooshing of faces; Genji can only take so much. As vain as he is -- and oh _is_ he -- and despite how he loves attention, it is seven in the morning in a cold winter day and perhaps the vocal grooming and pinches would be a lot more pleasant if they came from people half their age. Not that the old women who come to visit the Shimadas aren't nice, in fact they're practically angels to them, but they always talk for too long, time apparently lost and irrelevant in their old age.

Genji is nothing if not polite, though. He smiles and thanks them heartily for their many gifts -- many, _many_ gifts -- and laughs at all of their jokes he's heard several times over. He patiently fidgets as he listens to them gossip about the locals, all the new and usually mundane things that have happened since the Shimadas’ return from the hunt. And usually he'll take that time to space out as he waits for Hanzo to pass by and save him, the gossip usually about as interesting as the paperboy talking up the cute girl who runs the front desk at the arcade so Genj you better hurry up and _settle down_.

Today is something new.

“They say he's an American,” one of them giggles lightheartedly.

“With the way he _dresses_ , of course he is,” the other sniffs, readjusting the basket in her hands.

“Oh, but Haruka-chan says he's a sweetheart, real polite,” the third one adds quickly. “Says he's stopped by the ramen shop almost every night to order soup and always overpays.”

“So he's polite _and_ dumb.”

“Genji, sweetie, have you seen him around?” The first woman asks, lifting her eyebrows suggestively. “He's _young_.”

Genji blinks. “Um, no, I'm… afraid not. Do you know where he's staying?”

“Nowhere local,” and they almost seem disappointed that they can't learn anymore information because of it. “A shame, really. _Oh_ , speaking of --”

And they're off again, talking about the mundane.

Where the _hell_ is --

“Hanzo!” They all coo at someone else for a change as they see him strolling leisurely down the walkway.

Even from here, Genji can see the light quirk of his mouth. _Smug_. At least he isn't late, not to mention he owes him dinner. The ladies flock from Genji to Hanzo, presenting the other with just as many gifts as they showered him with earlier, allowing for some peace of mind. His mind wanders to this so-called newcomer that entered town while he and his brother were away, the American. He hopes it isn't another hunter vying for territory; they've had dealings with others before who have underestimated the Shimada name. It's a hassle to deal with, really, lots of paperwork and dry cleaning. Given the way they spoke of him, this well-mannered obscurely dressed mystery man, Genji’s keen to believe it's just a tourist. Not that Hanamura is a real hotspot for much, but if he's been frequenting the local ramen shop at least he has good taste.

“Genji,” Hanzo calls for his attention. “We should get going.”

“What?” He answers dumbly.

He can physically see Hanzo fight to not roll his eyes as he says, with great emphasis, “Our meeting.”

There is no meeting, but there is an out. If Genji were feeling particularly crueler he'd say so, just to keep Hanzo here for another fifteen minutes. But it's cold and he's starving for the breakfast that's wafting through the morning air.

“Ah, of course. We must not keep the Elders waiting, hm?” Genji grins, cocking his head to one side. “Sorry for the rush, ladies, but duty calls us away!”

He blows them all kisses dramatically, causing Hanzo to lose his battle versus his signature exasperated eye roll, and bows politely. Hanzo follows suit, only bowing, and waves goodbye as the women file out through the front gate.

“Hope your wallet is ready, brother,” Genji half teases as they turn to make their way to the kitchen.

“I was on time,” Hanzo states plainly.

“I still had to stall by myself though,” he whines, slouching a bit before straightening his posture quickly. “Ah, but they did have a bit of juicy information.”

“Oh? Are one of their grandchildren _single_?”

That earns Hanzo a playful smack to his arm, and he laughs.

“No! We apparently have had a foreign visitor frequenting Hanamura since our departure.”

Hanzo's amused attitude it short-lived, a heavy sigh escaping him as his lips downturn. “Another hunter?”

“I'm not sure.”

Hunting is plentiful in the winter, and it isn't uncommon to have to fight for bounties here and there. Most people know the Shimada name and the weight it carries, the older hunters know to stay away from their territory. Cocky new bloods, however, are a different story.

“I'll make a call after we eat,” says Hanzo as they stop in front of the dining hall.

The sliding door opens and they're ushered in, a fresh morning meal awaiting them at the table.

The rest of the day goes by uneventfully. They write up reports of their findings to the Elders and make plans for some newer hunts for later in the week. Genji hasn't spoken about the werewolf he met, doesn't write about it in his report. Perhaps some of the information he knows is important; the harpy harmed another beast, for reasons unknown, which is more than anything they've been able to find this season. The only thing mentioned is his orange sash missing from his hunting wardrobe. Hanzo asks about it when they set them up to be cleaned and Genji shrugs.

“Must've caught on something,” he lies plainly. A white lie.

Hanzo clicks his tongue. “Clumsy.”

The subject is dropped, but Genji can't help but wonder about the fate of the werewolf. Did he survive? Was he still fumbling around in the woods? Or had he simply taken refuge in the decaying trunk of the tree, hollowed and forgotten again, only to die? In all their bounties for the season, none are for a werewolf. It won't hurt to keep him a secret then, Genji figures, because for all he knows he's probably dead anyway.

 

⭐️

 

They share a dish of oden with a side of ramen for Genji and hot udon for Hanzo, comforting and warm in their bellies to stave off the winter frost outside. True to his word, Hanzo treats Genji to dinner at Rikimaru as consolation for being a distraction this morning, and true to Genji’s appetite -- and attitude -- he spoils himself on Hanzo’s money. Not that Rikimaru is by any means expensive cuisine no matter how much Genji eats, and they even get a small discount from the store’s owner as thanks for all their hard work. But Genji still makes a big deal about ordering a meal and a half, so Hanzo must follow up -- as per code of older siblings -- by lightly teasing him through faux annoyed sighs.

The store owner looks on in amusement, reminiscing quietly to himself about how much they’ve grown out of throwing sticky rice from across the table at each other as their father scolded them through light chuckles, picking up the fallen rice off the table.

They talk about menial things as they eat, casual conversations that span from work related topics to little things they’ve done in their downtime. It’s relaxing, and they allow themselves this day of reprieve because they know tomorrow will bring them back to reality. There are reports of a basilisk or two down by the river that they’ve been asked to check out, says Hanzo, and Genji rolls his eyes because that’s the third time this year someone’s reported basilisks near the river. At this point he’s starting to suspect someone is breeding them as pets and letting them loose for fun. It wouldn’t be the first time something like that has happened, first time for basilisks though. Genji asks if Hanzo’s considered the proposal from the Mitzuri family and tries not to laugh as his brother looks ready to choke on his dinner. The suitors seemingly never stop, neither do the Elders for that matter, and Hanzo wishes they would. He has more important things to worry about, he grumbles around his chopsticks, and Genji does not envy his responsibilities one bit. He does, however, laugh at his brother’s expense.

The bell above the door jingles, and even after it closes softly the jingle persists. Genji looks up from his meal, mouth full of noodles as he slurps them up and earning himself a glare from Hanzo across the table. He ignores his brother’s beginnings of the ‘ _you're twenty-six and should know better_ ’ spiel in lieu of concentrating solely on the person at the front of the bar. Some monstrously tall fellow covered in a dirty red blanket and a cowboy hat straight out of the movies, boots with spurs and all, with his face matted with unruly hair and beard alike. He's got sunkissed skin, either natural or from days out in the brutal sun Genji isn't sure, with an unlit cigarillo hanging from his lips that he casually plucks from them, opting to pocket it out of politeness. There is a thick, spicy smell of overcompensating cologne of some sort filling up the small restaurant. If this _isn't_ the foreigner those old women were gossiping about this morning Genji would eat his shoe.

“Brother,” he interrupts quietly, pointing his chopsticks nonchalantly at the bar front.

Hanzo takes a minute to swallow the rest of his chiding before glancing over his shoulder, only to doubletake.

“Oh, good evening again sir!” Haruka, a sweet young thing who works the late shift, smiles over at the man as she wipes her hands dry. “Would you like your usual?”

The fact that she's speaking in English gives the brothers the idea that he either isn't fluent in Japanese, or doesn't speak it at all.

“Evenin’ ma’am,” he tips his hat, grinning enough to show a little teeth. “If you'd be so kind, please, I'd like it to go.”

“Busy night?” She teases, moving towards the kitchen.

“Somethin’ like that, yeah.”

His accent is a thick, southern drawl like molasses, dark and rich. Hanzo’s already turned back in his seat and taps the edge of the oden pot to grab Genji’s attention as he shamelessly stares. The blanket, or whatever is it, is tilted heavier to one side, giving his right arm easy access but covering his left all together. He's looking for a weapon, the glint of a knife or gun or something as the man just stands there patiently waiting for his meal.

“ _Genji_ ,” Hanzo hisses, reaching over to pinch Genji’s arm with his chopsticks.

“Ow!”

“Quit staring.”

“I'm not.” He is, but it's for curiosity's sake. It's the single most interesting thing that's happened since their return, Genji can't help but stare and wonder if he's just a very obnoxiously dressed tourist or the world’s most conspicuous hunter. “I'm _researching_.”

Hanzo huffs, trying to hide a chuckle. “That's what you say when you're checking someone out too.”

That earns him a choking cough and a bewildered look from Genji. For his sake, Hanzo hopes the foreigner can't understand Japanese, though it doesn't seem to matter one way or another. Genji’s small outburst causes him to look their way, eyes on the younger of the two brothers.

It's a split second, long enough that Genji will swear to his grave he saw it but short enough that it could be easily said it was a trick of the light. Eyes like pale full moons, shining just so out of the shadow of his wide brimmed hat.

“Your order, sir!”

Genji doesn't breath even after he looks away, his attention fully on Haruka with his polite grin and brown eyes and tilt of his hat in thanks. He reaches into his back pocket for the money, leaves more than need be on the bar, and exits with his dinner wrapped up neatly and tucked underneath his arm before Haruka can correct him.

“He always pays too much…” she mumbles. “He'll be able to get a free soup next time.”

Genji’s still staring, blatantly now as his eyes follow the stranger out the door and down the street until he can't see him anymore out the front window.

“Genji.”

Hanzo’s voice wills him to breath, a soft sigh as he turns to finally look at his brother.

“What's the matter?” He asks, face twisted in concern.

“Nothing, I…” _think I saw a dead man._

No, not a man, a beast. He'd seen those eyes upon the beast, dying, _dead_ under the rotting trunk of a tree, a hollowed grave. Wide-eyed and scared and silver.

Genji laughs, snorting childishly as he digs his chopsticks into the oden pot.

“There's no way he's a hunter,” he says between chuckles. “Not dressed like _that_. Obnoxious.”

“Ah, just like that one man, with the neon green hair.” Hanzo deadpans, not missing a beat.

Genji nearly chokes on his food as he leans over the table to play-punch Hanzo, whose head is thrown back and laughing.

“I'm a professional, that's not funny!” He whines, slumping into his chair.

“My _point_ , brother,” Hanzo manages as he composes himself. “Don't judge him based off his outlandish outfit.”

Genji nods begrudgingly because he knows. He knows he's not a hunter, but something worse.

 

There’s a sound before there’s sight, something not altogether guaranteed to grab his attention but it does. A can, or something tinny, falls to the ground in an alleyway across the street. It isn’t too late, at least not for Genji, but the small town of Hanamura is quiet as the brothers walk the relatively empty streets back home. The can, whatever it is, when it falls is just out of place enough for his curiosity to peak. He almost doesn’t, there’s sugar threatening to dribble down his chin as he attempts to gracefully eat his dessert and he’s beginning to wonder why he didn’t just order a crepe like Hanzo. Genji manages to save it, simultaneously licking his lips and wiping his chin with two fingers as he turns his head towards the sound.

There’s a sight after the sound, simplistic and easy to miss but it’s almost as if Genji’s expecting it when he looks. A pale shimmer, round and wide-eyed like the full moon. And then it’s gone as quickly as it appeared, leaving him blinking dumbly at a seemingly empty, dark alley. There’s a possibility that he’s just seeing things, seeing what he wants. Or it’s the guilt building up in him because he didn’t tell Hanzo about the werewolf the other night, he didn’t tell him that he tried to talk to him, tried to help him, and then just left him. Maybe it’s the guilt that he didn’t do more. Genji frowns at that; it was a werewolf, he shouldn’t feel _guilty_ for leaving it.

Genji ignores the fact that he sees Hanzo when he thinks about the wound.

“Genji?” Hanzo’s turned to stare at him and he wonders just how dumb he looks standing in the middle of the sidewalk with syrupy sugar dripping down his chin as he stares into an empty alleyway.

“I forgot,” he grins stupidly, tipping back on his heels. “I promised I’d tell Haru-chan about our hunt when we got back, and she gets off work in a little bit so….”

That earns him the eyeroll of the season, no doubt in Genji’s mind. “Go on and chase your tail.”

While that wasn’t entirely what he’d been aiming for excuse-wise, he isn’t going to argue it. There’s nothing that’ll get Hanzo to shut up quicker than saying he’s going out to “chase tail” as he so thoughtfully put it. So Genji grins even wider, finishing off his stick of sweet dango with as much finesse as possible.

“Goodnight, brother!” He sing-songs away from him, walking backwards towards Rikimaru.

It’s a slow pace and it’s meant to be, because as soon as Hanzo’s around the corner he stops and counts to ten. At five he’s licking the sharp, albeit dull stick his dessert had been skewered across, lapping up the last of the sticky sugar before brandishing it like a weapon, nonchalantly dropping his right hand to his side. At ten he crosses the street, watches for Hanzo to make sure he hasn’t doubled back for any particular reason as he inches towards the alleyway.

There’s a chance that it’s nothing, but his instincts tell him to check anyway. Maybe Hanzo’s paranoia is starting to rub off on him. But he knows he saw it, he _knows_ . It was there at the ramen shop, again in the alleyway, that night of the hunt and the snow and the blood; _he knows_. His grip on the stick tightens.

The light of the streetlamps just barely pierce the darkness in the alley, enough to illuminate three careful steps in before Genji’s vision has to adjust and take in more darkness than there is light. He pulls his weapon -- the skewer with the light glaze of syrup on it -- behind him as he eyes the alleyway. A few garbage bags yet to be picked up, cigarette buds, bits of snow that have piled up after sliding off the roofs, several stray papers from this morning’s newspaper crumpled and water stained; nothing out of the ordinary.

Except a particular smell that otherwise would’ve been overlooked had he not smelled it but a half hour ago. The thick, spicy smell of overcompensating cologne.

“Whatcha gonna do with that?”

The voice is behind him and it catches Genji off guard, causing him to spin around on his heels. It's that accent again, that honey sound, and he knows it's _him_ but he's unsure whether he should brandish the weapon -- the stick.

The man towers over him, a good six foot something for sure but it does nothing to deter Genji. He’s got that unlit cigarillo back in his mouth just hanging off his curled lips, right arm in view while that weird blanket hides the other. Genji fidgets, straightening his stance just enough that he’s sure he doesn’t look putoff by the sudden intrusion.

He motions idly towards the sugar-coated skewer. “Gonna stab a vampire with it and give it a sugar rush?”

There's a smile on his face, as closed lipped as he can get it with the cigarillo jammed in there, but Genji’s not looking at his mouth. It's his eyes, crinkled at the edges and weary, brown in color and not in the least bit otherworldly. The angle is all wrong, he's facing away from the streetlamps, they won’t shine. There’s nothing threatening in his stance and yet Genji continues to shrink under him. He didn’t hear him approach, not a footstep or a jingle of his spurs and that unnerves him.

Genji rolls his shoulders back, tilting his chin up and offering the stranger a smirk. “No, but I might accidentally stab some poor soul sneaking up on me.”

“Oh no, please, not the sugar stick.” His smile widens into a grin.

In hindsight, it does look rather ridiculous though Genji’s killed others with much less. Granted, they were human, but he knows he isn’t going to out muscle a werewolf.

That’s to say if that’s even what he’s looking at right now, a… cowboy werewolf. A trick of the light, he thinks, in the restaurant. Hanzo’s paranoia is rubbing off, he scowls as he thinks about the pair of eyes -- trick of the light -- in this very alleyway. That beast is dead, the rotting hollow a grave. It’s impossible.

“Is there a reason you are creeping up on armed people in the middle of the night?” Genji asks, twirling the stick between his fingers idly.

“Aw shucks, I almost forgot.” There’s a terrifying difference between his honey sweet words, overly polite and compensating, and his towering stance taking up the width of the alleyway, the almost condescending look on his face. “I ain’t from ‘round here and I’ve gone and gotten myself lost.”

Genji lets out a short laugh through his nose. “Dressed like that, you almost look like little red riding hood, lost in our forest of a village hm?”

The man takes a step forward, crowding the smaller of the two who doesn’t dare take a step back and let up any ground. His grin widens, sporting teeth, pointed canines. Genji’s heart leaps into his throat. It’s _impossible_.

“Oh,” he chuckles, a deep throaty sound. “I much prefer to be the wolf in that story.”

There’s a blur of motion from the two of them. Genji’s quicker, reflexes acting on his fight or flight instincts as he swings his makeshift weapon up, aiming for his ribcage, but the stranger acts as if he’s waiting for it, sidesteps it easily before making a grab at Genji’s face. His massive hand wraps around his mouth, fingers squeezing around his jawline as he lifts him up off the ground to lessen any leverage. It’s effortless, Genji only sees the strain to hold _back_ if anything as he’s carried deeper into the alleyway though he doesn’t make it easy. His arms wrap around the assailant’s, free hand digging its fingers into the meat of his arm painfully though to no avail. He’s held at arm’s length and while his legs don’t quite reach anything but the blanket flapping in the air it doesn’t stop Genji from kicking wildly, hoping to strain the other’s hold further. They turn, right, and then turn again, this time sharply and to the left. Between buildings, away from the already dying main streets of Hanamura. There’s hardly any light this far in, no streetlamps and even the pale sliver of the waning moon offers little to nothing. Genji’s eyes take a moment to adjust but he knows this _stranger_ needs no time.

They stop after a handful of moments winding through the back corridors of the village. Genji hasn’t tired of his attempt to break free and the foreigner doesn’t seem to care. He shoves Genji against a wall, causing his vision to swim, and crowds against him as he’d done earlier.

“Listen and quit your goddamn fidgeting.” The warmth in his voice is gone, no longer needing to hold up his air headed foreigner act, Genji assumes but he doesn’t stop squirming. “I need your -- ”

The stick sinks in further than Genji thought it would, in all honesty, as it wasn’t too sharp to begin with. Fight or flight instincts, and all that. He twists it, attempting to squeeze it into his bicep further as the blood pours over his fingers and soak into the blanket, amber eyes dead set on darkening brown ones.

A deadpan, “ _Ow,_ ” is all he gets in response before the stranger takes a deep, slow breath. The fingers along his jawline twitch with some form of self restraint as he lets the breath out. Genji tries his luck by twisting the stick again; the fingers clench.

“I don’t wanna hurt you, but goddamn if you ain’t making it difficult,” he says with an airy laugh. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead. I don’t play with my food.”

He smiles as if it’s some part of a joke Genji should be in on. Genji’s finding it a little difficult to find the humor in this situation, if he’s being honest. The fingers around his jaw loosen just enough that they hopefully won’t bruise, opposite the white knuckled grip he has on the dango skewer.

“You saw me two nights ago,” he starts again, this time speaking slower. “The wolf. Remember?”

Genji narrows his gaze and nods as best he can. The man’s -- beast’s -- expression softens a bit, licks his lips while he tries to form his next sentence, his next move. It’s hard to forget the look in his eyes, nothing otherworldly even if everything else screams as such and so much human, too much. If this man -- beast, he needs to remind himself -- is going to be the death of him, Genji can’t blame anyone except himself. Hanzo would’ve killed it, but Genji has a softness in his heart, a softness that might bruise if he isn’t careful.

“I need your help.”

The stranger doesn’t wait for Genji to respond. He maneuvers the blanket to slide away from his left side and the smell of it hits Genji before the sight does, the mixture of rot and that all too present scent of cologne causing his throat to constrict as he makes a gagging noise behind the hand around his face. The arm from the elbow down to the fingers is dead, vicious strips of flesh dry and discolored, and there’s a blackness in the veins that’s visible up until it reaches the choke point. His orange sash. Genji looks at the arm and then back at the stranger, back to the arm when he doesn’t say anything. It isn’t rotting, per say, the tar-like substance more eating away at the dead skin than anything else. Genji remembers this well, Hanzo’s legs having developed the same look.

“You’ve seen this before, haven’t you?”

Genji nods again. The grip on the skewer loosens.

“I need your help,” he says again, voice straining. “I’m gonna let go, alright? _Don’t_ test me.”

He lowers Genji to the ground but doesn’t let go when his feet are settled. Genji realizes he’s waiting for his confirmation, the not testing part, and he doesn’t know if he means running or yelling. He’ll do neither out of pride and nothing less, but he wants his stick. With the newly found leverage he pulls the skewer out, the other eliciting a quiet grunt in response. Genji nods and thinks that maybe he isn’t the only fool here in the alleyway. He may be armed with nothing but a sugary, now bloodied, stick from dessert alone and without the means of swiftly calling for backup, but this man -- beast -- sought him out. Sought out a hunter who knows, or at least had an inkling of what he is, sought out a man who belongs to the most powerful hunting clan in Japan, the most powerful family in Japan. He wonders if there’s something in his eyes that the other sees, the way Genji sees something in his.

The fingers twitch against his jawline for but a moment before releasing their grip slowly, pulling away enough that Genji’s quickened breaths puff against his palm. They stare at each other for a full minute, gauging, thinking, and he sees that flash of light across his eyes, that something otherworldly that comes in and out, silver and pale and then it’s gone. Brown.

Genji moves first, nothing quick as he brings the skewer in his right hand to his left arm. He makes a cutting motion before verbalizing, “Amputate it.”

The hand in front of his face flexes as if it wants to grab him again but doesn’t, only flexes again. He isn’t looking at Genji anymore, he’s looking at his arm dead at his side. When he flicks his attention back at him, he does his best not to flinch under the hard gaze.

“Where’ve you seen this wound before?”

“Around.”

The hand flexes again, this time moving close enough to brush the tip of Genji’s nose when it uncurls. He’s testing his luck but he also knows this man -- beast -- needs him, he won’t kill him. Not right now, at least.

“ _Where_?” It’s a half-growl, formed between clenched teeth.

Genji tilts his chin up and leans his head against the stucco wall behind him. “Six years ago. One of our hunters...” he doesn’t make mention that it’s his brother, it’s irrelevant and personal, “...got his legs torn up. Our doctors spent two weeks trying to reverse the effects but nothing works.”

He’s quiet again, just staring at Genji as if trying to read between his already rather clear words. His hand doesn’t leave the close vicinity of the other’s face, and Genji tries to see if it’ll follow when he moves his head a little to the left, to the right. It follows. He’s afraid, Genji realizes, this isn’t easy for him. He wonders if it’s a pride thing or if he really is afraid of Genji, if he knows he’s pushing his luck coming to a hunter for information.

“Who did the procedure?” He asks after a long stretch of silence.

“Our doctors.”

“Take me to them.”

Genji blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Take. Me. To them.” He says it slower, though there’s a condescending edge to his voice this time. “ _Your_ doctors.”

“No,” he says it between an airy laugh that dies in his throat as the hand begins to flex meaningfully. “ _No_.”

“I need your help.” It’s a desperate sound, his voice, losing its tough edge. Genji remembers the way the wind carried a whine through the trees in the forest when he left to rejoin his brother. “You didn’t kill me in the woods.”

“I should have,” Genji says, uncharacteristically cold. He’d say he sounds like Hanzo, but Hanzo wouldn’t have given this conversation the chance to happen. “A mercy killing, if anything.”

“But you didn’t!” His voice raises, not angry but desperate like before. The fingers flex and uncurl in front of Genji like an exercise. He doesn’t miss how the fingernails begin to blacken at the root. The man -- beast -- takes a deep breath and holds it, lets it out slow. “You didn’t. So I’m gonna repay you, for that and for _this_ ,” he shrugs his left shoulder. “With a bit of information I’m willing to bet your fancy people don’t have.”

This, to Genji’s surprise, peaks his interest. He tilts his head curiously, eyes narrowing. “Information on what?”

“That _harpy_ ,” he spits the word out like venom between his teeth. His eyes flash again, something akin to anger burning in them.

Genji hums. “What kind of information?”

“The useful kind.”

“My ‘fancy’ people can not get useful information?” He sounds almost insulted, _almost_ if it weren’t for the fact that they have almost nothing after six years that is useful beyond the creature nesting every winter in the forests beyond Hanamura. “You think so lowly of the Shimada Clan?”

The stranger blinks and straightens for a second before letting out a low, throaty chuckle. He tips his hand beneath Genji’s chin, raising it just a bit higher so they can see eye to eye.

“Lowly of your informants, beg your pardon, but never the wicked heirs to the Shimada Clan.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, cowboy.” Genji clicks his tongue and smiles, sharp and dangerous. His vanity can only carry him so far. He repeats, “What kind of information?”

He doesn’t bother removing his fingers from beneath his chin as he speaks, “Personal files, safe house locations, travel patterns, scent, that sort of thing. I’m guessing since your clan doesn’t A, exclusively hunt this thing and B, doesn’t have a license to hunt outside of Japan you don’t know where it is until the first day of winter. You and your brother and your group of fancy people go out once a week, three to four days at a time, and mindlessly search for all the wrong things. You’re hopeless, I can help.”

It’s Genji’s turn to blink, back straight across the wall. He isn’t sure if he should feel angry or impressed. To know that he’s the heir of the Shimada Clan is one thing, he doesn’t particularly hide the fact that he’s a privileged brat around the town and the people here practically treat him and Hanzo like royalty. To know they don’t have a license outside of Japan, to know their hunting schedule during the winter, to watch close enough that he knows their mistakes -- is that why he was out two nights ago? Had he been following them? How hadn’t they _noticed_? Genji swallows thickly, can feel the fingers brush against his throat when he does.

“How long have you been watching us?” He asks.

The other taps his fingers underneath his chin twice. “Two winters. This’ll be my third.”

He isn’t just some dumb foreigner with obscene fashion taste then. Oh, but what the old women would say about this.

“Where is all this information?” Genji asks.

“On my datapad.”

“And that is?”

He moves to reach for it but he can’t, his left arm barely bending back to grab at something he can’t hold. His face furrows in frustration and Genji almost feels bad for him. It’s another sign of desperation, he notes, that he’d so willingly go to someone like him in his current position. Even with only one working arm, however, he’s still a great threat.

Genji moves a hand to where the other is motioning towards, but he’s pushed back with fingers lightly dancing across his throat and a growl coming from the other. He looks up to meet his eyes, hand retracting.

“I only wish to help.” He says innocently.

“Then keep your pretty little hands to yourself,” he answers with a mocking smile.

He does as he’s told, letting his hand drop back to his side as he watches the other mull over his options for another minute before sliding his hand away from his throat with hesitation. All of their movements are tight and calculated; this stranger may have something Genji and Hanzo can benefit from but that doesn’t mean Genji won’t try to play dirty. He knows the stranger needs him, but that doesn’t mean he won’t try something stupid. But he won’t, either play dirty or do something stupid -- though this right here, this _thing_ that is happening whatever it is could possibly be categorized as something stupid -- and just watches.

As it has been happening lately tonight, his thoughts go back to Hanzo, what he’d say if he knew. What he’d say not because of what was happening but the reason it was transpiring in the first place.

Genji has a soft heart but sometimes he agrees with Hanzo’s echoing words; _fool_.

The datapad lights up when the stranger touches it, but he doesn’t activate it. Instead, he opts to give it to Genji, if only to return his right hand to its previous spot hovering around his throat.

“The unnamed file, second row third from the right.”

Genji counts two down, three over from the right and pokes the little file folder. It opens with columns of files, all named with no dates. Some are picture files, to which Genji opens first, but not many are helpful. Many have the people blacked out but the surroundings in full view, others are a blurry flurry of feathers, a dark smudge of a shadow flitting through the treelines, carcases that look to have been picked clean to the bone. One catches his attention, the clearest picture he’s seen yet of a black, feathered creature flying off. The surroundings aren’t familiar in the least, a warehouse of some sort with broken windows on the walls and parts of machinery gathering dust on the floor. Its wings are outspread, body twisted around with its front facing the camera. The face is blurred but the eyes glow a vicious red. It sends a shiver down Genji’s spine.

He goes for the reports next, many of them vague and written by task forces and hunters alike from around the globe but they give the most information that he’s ever seen and nothing is redacted. As the files go further, they get older he presumes as black squares appear where he believes a picture should be and much of the information is blacked out. One file is completely redacted save for one word, Switzerland. Genji closes it and then the rest of the folder, but holds the datapad between his hands without any sign of giving it back as he looks up at the stranger.

“Okay,” Genji says slowly. “Let me call my brother.”

“No.”

“Alright, I will just bring home a werewolf posing as a hunter hunting in forbidden territory, I am sure that will go over just fine,” he sports his infamously irritating -- by Hanzo’s standards -- shit eating grin. He’s sure it isn’t much more pleasant to the stranger either, given the upturned lip he gets in return. “Let me call my brother and explain the situation. This is not a decision I can make alone.”

He looks to be stewing in his own thoughts for a minute or two, hand still underneath his chin as if he’s afraid Genji will run if he isn’t close. As if Genji could outrun him. He hunted a werewolf once, nasty thing as it had given into the wilds. It had been smaller than this one in front of him, at least in his transformed state, but burly and quick. It outpaced both Hanzo and himself on the ground, they had to travel by treetop. The alley is small, thin corridors with short buildings on either side. There’s a chance Genji can out climb him while he’s still in his human form, but he sees little point in it. He’s trading an arm for information, a quick amputation and perhaps a week of bedrest before the prosthetic is complete for personal files, locations to safe houses, travel patterns; he wants to ask how he’s come to find these things but he also doesn’t want to look a gifthorse in the mouth. Looking a werewolf in the mouth might be just as unrewarding.

“Don’t test me.” His fingers push up into his throat.

“Or what, you will kill me?” Genji laughs through his nose. “You need me.”

“Won’t have nothin’ if you double cross me, so what’d be the difference?”

Good point.

Slowly, finally, he moves his hand away from Genji’s face altogether, plucking the datapad from him as his hand passes over it and lets it rest at his side. It isn’t everyday someone manages to pin Genji Shimada underneath their thumb, but he’s done it and doesn’t look an ounce smug about it either. For that, Genji is thankful or else he’d be inclined to test his luck just a little too far. He can already feel his lack of pride turn to arrogance as he brushes himself off and reaches for his phone tucked away in his coat pocket. While he flicks through his contacts, he doesn’t dare move from his spot despite the snow having settled around his boots and is starting to chill. The small space between them is enough and it’s freeing without the hand constantly near him.

Hanzo picks up on the second ring.

“I swear to god if he butt dialed me again, I’ll kill him,” Genji can hear Hanzo mumble to either himself or another, he doesn’t know, but he laughs all the same.

The last time he butt dialed him, of all people, he’d been getting a rather luxurious lap dance. Hanzo had been in a meeting.

“Brother, I’m hurt,” he says in their native tongue and he sees the other bristle slightly. English would be suspicious, he has to know that. “Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy listening in.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“No, no! It’s important.” When he hears the even breathing of his brother, he continues. “You’ll never guess who I bumped into on the way back to Rikimaru.”

“Haruka?” He can practically hear his eyes rolling.

“Tsk, tsk, Hanzo. Roll your eyes any harder and they’ll fall out of your head,” he teases before quickly adding, in English, “That cowboy.”

He can tell it takes him a minute to understand, hears the sharp intake of breath when the realization dawns on him. “Is he?”

“Mhmm, a hunter,” it’s back to Japanese and Genji leans against the wall comfortably, digging blood out from underneath his nails as he speaks. “He has a bit of a predicament, you see.”

“Besides hunting in _our_ territory?” Oh, Hanzo’s fuming and given any other circumstance Genji would join him.

“Don’t interrupt,” he clicks his tongue. “He has information on our troublesome little harpy, a fucking goldmine. Files, travel information, hideout locations, the works. He’s willing to share too, isn’t that nice of him?”

There’s the telltale tapping of Hanzo’s smoking pipe on a nearby surface, anxious tapping. “In exchange for?”

“That’s the predicament,” and just like that Genji loses his teasing tone, the subject too close to him. “He’s injured.”

“And?”

Genji looks up at the stranger for a moment, and he’s still staring at him carefully, on edge and ready if he makes any sort of unwelcome movement. He looks at his arm, uncovered and unmoving. “It’s a harpy wound.”

They’re quiet for a moment or two, the silence thick on the phone and in the air between him and the stranger. There’s a long, heavy sigh on the other end and the sound of Hanzo getting up from his seat.

“Where’s the injury?”

“His left arm, up to his elbow.”

“So he’s expecting, what? _Us_ to fix him up with a new arm after not only trespassing but digging into our mark?” Hanzo is fuming again. “Who is he with?”

Genji doesn’t bother asking to confirm. “Independent.”

He scoffs. “And the information, is it solid?”

“What isn’t redacted to shit, yeah.”

There’s silence on the phone again. Hanzo’s actually giving this thought and Genji can’t blame him. While they’re both heirs to the empire their father and forefathers built, Hanzo is the eldest and by proxy gets the shit end of the deal always. They’ve been on this particular contract for six years, since before their father passed away, and with nothing to show for it year and year again the Elders are getting impatient. Genji knows Hanzo tries to shield him from most of it, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t aware. If they can scoop up at least this much, redacted files and all, it’ll give them a lead like no other. On the other hand, the Elders aren’t exactly the most tolerant when it comes to asking for help from people the Shimadas don’t have a leash on. Hanzo’s weighing the pros and cons of it all, if this is worth the trouble, and Genji wants to interrupt his thought process to tell him yes, it is.

But that could be his vengeance talking.

There’s a sigh on the other end of the phone before Hanzo speaks. “Bring him in, we’ll discuss it. Do you need a car?”

“No, we’ll walk,” Genji looks up at the stranger briefly and his eyes are still glued to him. “See you in twenty.”

The only affirming sound is a gruff sigh from Hanzo’s end and then the click of the call ending. Genji takes a moment before lowering his phone slowly and slide it back into his pocket, keeping eye contact with the other.

“So?” He says, fidgeting.

“We will discuss it, he said.”

It isn’t a yes or a no and Genji can see it bothers him, not having the direct answer he was looking for. He shifts from one foot to the other, growling low in his throat but doesn’t look away. Genji meets his gaze with one of his own, chin tilting up just so with a flair of defiance. It’s as good as he’s going to get, he has to know that, Genji thinks, because Hanzo is so damn hard to please, the Elders even moreso, but this information is too valuable to pass up. He thinks getting that arm fixed is too valuable a deal to pass up; he doesn’t want to think about what he’ll have to do if he doesn’t get it amputated. Gnaw it off? Genji shudders at the thought.

He agrees finally with a long, deep inhale and a begrudging “ _fine_ ” because it really is as good as it’s going to get.


	2. Hunters' Lair; Dragons' Den

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one negotiates better than Hanzo. No one’s silver-tongue is as sharp as Genji’s.  
> Genji has to wonder if Jesse McCree knows that.

“Name’s Jesse McCree.”

There are three moments in McCree’s life where his introduction is life changing, important.

He’s thirteen, just barely, when he says it between the bile rising in his throat. His leg is burning, bleeding far too much, and the smell of copper and entrails is making him dizzy. He’s buried in the stench, surrounded on all sides by half eaten carcases left to rot in the tiny room. Behind him he hears the sickening sound of a scraggly wolf gnawing on the remains of a boy just a little older than he is. He won’t look, he can’t or he’ll lose what little he has in his stomach right then and there in front of the leader of the Deadlock Pack. Barely, beyond the wet noises, he can hear praise, he’s got _guts_ which ironically might spill over the floor in a few minutes if he isn’t careful. He’s got fight, a spirit to be broken, that is theirs to take and do as they please because he’s theirs now. That bite on his leg proves it. They don’t take good for nothings, he hears him preen, they don’t have time for weak links. They like to take their pickings from the young, they’re easier to mold, to shape, to break. Something in the body behind Jesse gives and there’s a loud, wet cracking sound. Liquid spills, blood and thicker things across his dirty sneakers and he makes the mistake of looking down. He vomits. He’ll do just fine.

He’s sixteen and in chains, not silver but tough enough that he can’t manhandle his way out of them. The room is just as small as the last time, only it smells of stale recycled air and the floors are relatively clean. He’s got one hell of a bloody nose and a swelling black eye, courtesy of the man sitting opposite him. It takes four separate times to get a name out of him, as if withholding it would allow him to keep what dignity he has left. He won’t tell him the names of his pack though, he’s loyal, he _owes_ them. They aren’t coming for you kid, he says calmly, clawed hands crossed neatly in front of him. McCree thinks they will, but they won’t, they don’t. He won’t understand the why for another year or so. The man, his soon to be commander, asks for the names again and gets a resounding fuck you. He laughs, and McCree sinks lower in his uncomfortable metal chair in the too bright metal room. There’s an ultimatum instead of a question, not much of a choice if he’s honest, but it’s the best damn thing that’s happened to him in a long damn time.

He’s twenty-eight and introducing himself to a one Genji Shimada, youngest of the Shimada Clan heirs and a vicious son of a bitch if McCree’s being honest. The older one? Fucking terrifying. Together they’re like god kings and scarier than any Deadlock Pack member or Blackwatch mission he’s ever been on. Contrary to all of those things, Genji is being incredibly gentle with him right now even when he has no reason to be. The bloody, orange sash around his arm needs to be changed. Hanzo saw it, he says, that it was missing. And of course he understands so he lets him work, untying the rather well done knot to be replaced by another sash, this one black. He works quickly but carefully and somewhere between tying the new sash to cut the blood flow and lighting the old one on fire with his lighter, McCree decides to introduce himself.

“Jesse McCree.” Genji repeats, rolling each syllable across his tongue slowly as if he’s trying to figure out if he knows that name.

“You can call me McCree.”

If he’d worked for Overwatch, there was a chance Genji might know the name. Eleven years ago, when Overwatch was in its heyday and the big bright symbol of hope and peace, they had gone to a lot of different organizations to form partnerships. The Shimada Clan had been one of the few who’d rejected time and time again, though it had been under a different reign, and by the time leadership had changed Overwatch had all but fizzled into a steaming pile of ash. McCree’s side of the coin didn’t do negotiations, his name wouldn’t be on a dossier in the Shimada database. Still, Genji’s brows furrow in thought as they watch the sash burn away in the snow of the alleyway.

McCree crouches down and holds his cigarillo to the flames. He just cornered one of the heirs to the most dangerous family in Japan and threatened him, now’s as good a time as ever for a smoke break.

“Where were you when you got that wound?” Genji asks after the last bit of the sash is burnt away.

“Around.” McCree not-so subtly mimics the childish way Genji had answered his question earlier, tilting his head up from the ground to smirk up at him to boot.

“Ooh, someone likes jokes, hm?”

Genji has this way of smiling, McCree notices, that’s anything but a smile. It’s wide and sharp and dangerous, crinkles the skin around his eyes that to anyone with half a brain would think he’s being cheeky. Maybe he is, just a little bit, but McCree likes to think he invented that kind of a smile, the smile that says “ _you try that shit one more time and you’ll be seeing your insides on your outsides_ ”.

He did not, in fact, invent that smile. He borrowed it from Commander --

That’s not a thought he needs right now.

The smile suits Genji in a weird way. McCree doesn’t particularly enjoy that smile directed at him, per say, but it suits him. He gets up from his crouch and takes a long, slow intake of his cigarello before answering the question in earnest.

“Alright, you get this tidbit of info for free ‘cause I like you.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Genji singsongs before deadpanning, “Fallacy will get you a mahogany box six feet under.”

“I’m partial to redwood, actually.” He’s pushing his luck and he knows it, but Genji’s expression loses a little bit of its edge so it can’t be too bad. “A ways south there’s an abandoned omnic factory. It was hiding out in there, but don’t get all giddy about it ‘cause it ain’t there no more.”

He gets a very unflattering look at that, but doesn’t get the chance to ask why. “ _South_? But we were --”

“Hunting in the western part of the forest, I know,” he pauses, bringing the cigarillo to his lips and inhaling. “That’s why you need help. Your informants are a week behind because they ain’t lookin’ for the right shit.”

Genji looks downright insulted at that, opens his mouth to say something but closes it. He knows McCree’s right and he’s having a hard time vocally admitting that. He takes a victory smoke for that.

“What exactly should we be looking for then?”

“Nuh-uh,” McCree waggles a finger at him. “Your freebie expired.”

He pouts and that alone throws him for half a loop. The clever fingers dancing up his good arm throws him the rest of the way around.

“And I thought you liked me, hm?” Genji looks up at him with eyes half lidded, the pout now quirked up into an innocent smile.

Oh.

McCree ignores the fact that his heart is thundering in his throat for half a goddamn second and tries to play it cool. It’s been awhile since he’s had to call back on his training, he doesn’t get much social interaction anymore. When half your friends are dead and you’re a little bit of a monster, it’s difficult. He swallows thickly, inhales the rest of his cigarillo and blows the smoke into Genji’s face.

“I lied.”

Just like that the facade falls and Genji’s back to giving him that sharp little smile of his. He can dance the dance just fine, even if they have to tiptoe around this strange almost partnership the entire time.

 

⭐️

 

Hanzo has the tea set in the meeting room ten minutes after Genji calls him. It takes a total of thirty-two seconds before he grabs the platter and takes it back into the kitchen. Five minutes after that he calls the staff back to bring it in again. Before they even bring it back in he’s wondering if he should get rid of it. He’s fighting between being polite and being petty, something that is usually his brother’s problem and not his, but after coming home from a failed hunt yet again and finding out that while they were gone, some independent American waltzed in and thought he could hunt in their territory, charitable is not the right word he would use to describe his mood.

Even if it is just tea.

He lets it sit in the middle of the table when the staff returns it and instead opts to leave the room altogether. The garden is a more refreshing area to be in anyway. Hanzo pulls his coat on as he leaves, breathing in the crisp night air. Not much of the staff is still awake, only those who work the kitchens and cater to the Elders roam the halls and walkways. The gardens are void of anyone however, and for that Hanzo is thankful. He strolls down the stone path to the quaint pagoda in the center, softly lit by the floating lanterns that circle it.

The Elders don’t know about the meeting, and they will continue not to know until Hanzo deems it fit that they _do_ know. They’ve been breathing down his neck frequently about a variety of things, things that he can handle himself in whatever fashion he wishes whenever he feels it necessary. He’s twenty-eight, heir no more but true leader to the Shimada Clan and yet they still see fit to treat him as if Father died just months ago. Never mind the fact that he’s been groomed for this position. Father’s death was unfortunate and sudden, but he hadn’t left the throne to their empire empty. Hanzo took it with ease and yet the Elders still carried a trepidation about them that never seemed to melt away as the years went by.

Even when Father was alive they complained; about Genji, about organizations like Overwatch, about contracts. Hanzo’s first contract was at fifteen, Father waited until Genji was eighteen to officially allow him on a hunt despite the Elders’ insistence. The boys should hunt together, they would say, learn together. But Father knew what took Hanzo a couple years to figure out; Genji had a soft soul and Father took pride in that as much as he took pride in everything that was Hanzo too. He would never budge on the subject of his sons, he raised them the way he saw fit. Hanzo won’t pretend he wasn’t jealous of how Genji seemingly had free reign, how he could hear his brother’s loud laughter from the garden as he sat in on lectures, but those are the envies of a boy. They walk the same path these days.

Overwatch was complicated. They wanted peace and they wanted help achieving that peace. The Shimada Clan was just big enough, just infamous enough to grab their attention and time and time again they would send negotiators. Hanzo remembers the first time they were let into the household; two men and a woman dressed in solid blue uniforms, coats that swept across their ankles and berets tilted just so on their heads. They were tall and proud, walked with their heads held high as if they were better than them, and not entirely human. Hanzo and Genji had watched from behind the safety of their nursemaid, small hands clinging to her dress they hid behind. They wanted peace, with the world, with one another, with the _monsters_ that roam the earth that they made a living off keeping at bay. It never worked out, but Overwatch persisted until they destroyed themselves.

Now all that’s left to gripe about is the harpy this, the harpy that, the _harpy_. Hanzo isn’t sure if going to an outside source is the right way to go about it, if the pressure and annoyance of the Elders is pushing him towards something regrettable, but it’s the biggest lead they have. If they need to pay a literal arm for information, so be it. If the Elders want to throw a fit, so be it.

“Lord Shimada.” A tinny voice interrupts his thoughts, and for once it’s welcomed.

He half turns to look at the omnic, face as decorative as it is intimidating. Smooth metal molded into the presence of a demon, tinted a soft red with bright streaks of warm colors accenting sharp features. The yellow lights on its forehead flicker patiently.

“Yes?”

“The young Lord has returned,” it hesitates, a small static pause, “with his guest, Jesse McCree. They await your presence in the meeting room.”

Hanzo nods and says nothing more, silently dismissing the omnic. He listens to the quiet _tik tik tik_ of the footsteps on the stone path until they disappear. Breathing in slowly, the eldest Shimada takes another moment for himself before making his way back to the meeting room.

 

The dangerous thing about the Shimada Clan is that they have their fingers in a lot of pies. It’s grown exponentially since its establishment and doubly so since Hanzo and Genji were old enough to take control of a few reigns. The brothers have a reputation that strikes fear, not just into the hearts of monsters they hunt but to humans who have dealings with them. Hanzo does a lot of up front work. He’s been groomed for it, to be the face of the clan both public and privately. No one negotiates better than Hanzo. But Genji is the blade at Hanzo’s side, the knife held against your neck or slipping quietly between two ribs, the poison on the tip of an arrow, in your tea, across his lips as he speaks in pretty, twisted words. No one’s silver-tongue is as sharp as Genji’s.

Genji has to wonder if Jesse McCree knows that. He has his feet up on the edge of the table, body flopped back against the chair leaning back with his hands folded neatly on his stomach. Perfectly calm despite bringing a werewolf into their home. McCree, on the other hand, has been a tense ball of nerves since their arrival, fidgeting from one foot to the next as he hovers two chairs away from him. When they arrived, he didn’t seem to know what to do with himself; hide in Genji’s shadow or walk arm’s length away from him. Maybe it isn’t their reputation so much as he’s a monster in the dead center of a hunter’s den. He wonders what he can smell, what he can hear that Genji cannot or has grown accustom to. The meeting room itself is rather plain and unthreatening, walls decorated with pictures of Hanamura and Japan, and various expensive paintings, with one long rectangular table in the center of the room with a glass top. Six chairs are seated evenly on each side, one at both heads, and a beautifully crafted chandelier above it all, the light dimmed. A simple room with simple function, yet McCree is jazzed and ready for anything.

“You need to relax,” Genji says, dropping his feet from the table and straightening up in his chair. “You look like you are hiding something.”

McCree turns his gaze over to him slowly, quirking an eyebrow. He tries to hide a laugh behind his hand, leaning over the table on his elbows.

“I know you _are_ ,” Genji chuckles, voice barely audible. “But try _not_ to.”

The thing about being Hanzo’s blade is that he never needs express permission to act. Hanzo trusts him enough to know when to make the right call. His trust isn’t misplaced, Genji’s never been wrong about whether or not to kill someone or leave them high and dry, but that’s really only ever pertained to humans. They’ve never had a monster try and negotiate before, and as far as Hanzo’s concerned they never have. Hanzo doesn’t have the worry about Genji’s softness with people, so he assumes his brother won’t look too hard when he comes in through the sliding doors and witnesses everything that Jesse McCree is at face value. If McCree had been bullshitting him Genji would know, he’s got a good read on people like that, so they wouldn’t be wasting time with a discussion about a new arm and information.

So the only thing Genji feels like he really needs to worry about is Hanzo’s temper and --

“Howdy,” Jesse tips his hat as Hanzo shuts the door, laying the accent on thick between his warm grin.

\-- and McCree’s overly thick southern charm, to which Hanzo seems uninterested in given his expression.

Genji hides a quick disgruntled look behind a hand, sliding it over his face before lifting himself up from the table. Hanzo looks anything but impressed. He nods regardless, taking off his coat and draping it across the back of a chair. Genji moves to stand next to his brother, feeling McCree’s eyes on him the entire time. He isn’t sure where standing is worse, a brother on either side of him to make him feel cornered or both of them looming on the opposite side of the table. He opts to stand where there’s a chair just between him and Hanzo in hopes that’ll allow the other to relax, but he doubts it helps at all. It doesn’t matter how much honey sweet charm McCree buries his words in, his stance doesn’t mirror it.

“Let me see it,” Hanzo starts, voice commanding in the small room as he motions vaguely at the cowboy’s left side.

McCree shrugs, maneuvering the blanket so that it falls open to reveal his wound. The smell of it begins to waft through the room almost immediately and Genji can’t help but put a hand up to his nose. Hanzo takes the brunt of it and dares to move closer, reaches out to touch it. Instinctively, the other takes a step back, thinks better of it, and McCree offers his arm again. He glances up at Genji, who mouths _relax_ from behind his brother.

“How long have you sustained this wound?” Hanzo asks, taking McCree’s arm in two hands. One grips him right above Genji’s sash, pulling the arm up, the other gingerly at his wrist to keep it from bending uncomfortably.

“Three days, just ‘bout.”

Hanzo hums, gently turning the arm to see the entirety of the damage done. Genji’s more focused on their faces and fidgets whenever his vision strays too southward, to the wound. He’s amazed that his brother can look at it without tension in his face, in his body, and Genji inwardly scolds himself for letting something like the sight of a wound on a stranger affect him so much.

The conversation between them is quiet, short, with Hanzo asking questions Genji had already asked and the answers remain the same. He asks about the sash and McCree replies that it’s Genji’s from earlier in the evening. Genji hopes, with his heart in his throat, that Hanzo doesn’t make the connection to where the other missing sash went. If he does, Hanzo says nothing about it and asks, instead, about the information he’s procured.

“I assume you brought it with you.”

McCree nods and grabs for his datapad, handing it to Hanzo. He lets go of his arm just as carefully as he handled it, knowing full well how much the wound, no matter the size, must hurt. Taking a cloth from one of his pockets with his dirty hand, Hanzo takes the datapad with his clean one and sets it on the table. On cue, Genji taps the table twice in rapid succession, causing the edges to glow. The faded blue light spreads inward, enveloping the surface. It reads the platter of tea first, creating a small white spinning circle around it before leaving it, uninterested. The white circle spins around the datapad next, causing it to open and spread its contents across the table.

McCree whistles. “Damn impressive.”

Genji can’t tell if he’s acting again or if he’s really impressed, but doesn’t think too much about it. He moves his hand to the file folder he’d been instructed towards earlier in the evening and taps on it with two fingers. The contents spill out in an orderly fashion, four columns across the long table, and Genji begins opening the ones he found most useful. They pop out in their own separate windows and he enlarges them before sliding them towards Hanzo while he continues down the line. His brother doesn’t say much as he looks through the pictures he’s pulled up, swipes through the files, frowns at some redacted material. McCree’s getting antsy in the corner when Genji looks up at him, fidgeting from one foot to the other as he had been earlier.

“Ya’ll gonna say somethin’?” He says to both of them, looks at Hanzo. “Deal was you could have it if you helped me.”

“I just want to make sure you are being honest about what you promised,” Hanzo doesn’t bother looking up at McCree when he speaks, only continues to look through what Genji thought was most important. “Where did you come by all of this?”

“Around.”

Genji snaps his head up, catching McCree’s attention with a narrowed gaze that speaks volumes,  says _don’t pull that shit again_. Hanzo has a temper he didn't bother to warn him about, but he figured the other’s worrisome mood would keep him in line. Evidently not. McCree chuckles, to his surprise, and tilts his hat down over his eyes.

“Apologies, you must be the brother who ain’t got the sense of humor.” Hanzo looks up at that, face void of expression, but McCree doesn’t see it. “Thought maybe that was somethin’ you two might’ve shared.”

Genji could strangle him, just lunge himself over the table and throttle him against the wall. He’s wasting time, wasting _their_ time, wasting _Hanzo’s_ time and making Genji look like a fool for bringing him in in the first place. And just when he’s about to apologize for it all, for _McCree_ , the thickness of it gagging him, Hanzo chuckles darkly.

“Oh, I know a few jokes.” The room goes still. He doesn’t, Genji’s heard his jokes before and they’re appalling. “For example, what do you and a school of fish share in common?”

“You got me there pardner.”

“Sleeping quarters,” Hanzo says with a small, self-satisfied smile. _Appalling._

McCree chuckles and Genji can tell it’s forced. “Ain’t never heard that one before. Looks like I’ve outlived the hospitality then.”

“Hospitality was never on the table,” Hanzo straightens his posture, looks the other straight in the eyes as he continues, “it is my patience you are about to outlive. I will ask you one last time, where did you get this?”

Silence falls thickly across the room. Genji hadn’t thought to ask where all this came from, where he’d gotten it, and when he stops to think about it it is all just a little too good to be true. There’s always a catch, besides the fact that he’s a werewolf. The other shoe has to drop sometime.

“Overwatch,” McCree mumbles, taking a step back when both Genji and Hanzo shift defensively. “I _stole_ it from Overwatch.”

That gets Genji to relax a little, but his brother is still tense beside him, eyes narrowed.

“You… stole it?” Hanzo asks slowly. “From Overwatch?”

“Yeah.”

“ _You_?” Genji presses, quirking an eyebrow at him.

McCree huffs a little, indignant. “Yeah, _me_. What, I don’t got the look for stealin’?”

“Pickpocketing, maybe.” Genji snorts, too sharp smile returning to his face.

“Look,” he frowns, insulted. “It ain’t that hard to steal from a dead organization. Now I answered your question, you gonna take it and help me or we gonna stand here and make more jokes?”

The room fall quiet again, but this time with purpose. Hanzo patiently taps out of every file Genji opened, closes the entire file itself, and presses three fingers onto the surface of the table. The glowing circle around the datapad fades, followed by the light of the table itself, disappearing to the edges from which it had originally come.

“What do you think?” Hanzo turns to Genji, speaking their mother tongue.

Genji glances up at McCree, back at his brother. “A measly arm for all this?”

“Much of it is redacted,” he frowns again. “But with time I believe we can scrounge something out of it. It’s more than we’ve ever had.” Tapping on the edge of the table, Hanzo looks at McCree, really looks at him as if assessing what to do with this lumbering man. “Do you trust him?”

Genji snorts. “No.”

He hums, turning back to his brother. “I’ll send some agents out to see if they can’t find where he’s been squatting. You keep an eye on him while he’s here.”

There’s a pause and an eyeroll from Genji, clicking his tongue. “Fine.”

“We have come to an agreement then,” Hanzo switches back to English, turns to face McCree completely. “We accept your offer of information in exchange for medical assistance.”

He holds out his hand between them, open and readily accepting. McCree doesn’t take it right away and looks past him, catching Genji’s passing stare. He wonders if he can control the weird, shining light he holds in his eyes, something he uses to put people off or if it’s happenstance trick of the shadow and light. It hasn’t happened once since they arrived and Genji wants to think it’s the former as if he was using it earlier in Rikimaru to get his attention, again in the alleyway, a warning flash in the forest. Doing something like that here would tip off Hanzo immediately. Genji silently commends him, in all honesty, for playing the dumb American cowboy getup well for he’s certainly proving to be the opposite.

“Glad we could come to an agreement,” McCree smiles, close-lipped, as he outstretches his hand to take Hanzo’s. “Deal.”

“Deal.” He smiles back and neither one of them mean it. “I suppose you will want your datapad back?”

“Nah, go ahead and keep it with you,” he lets go of the handshake and waves his hand over to the pad still sitting on the desk. “You can’t get into the rest of the files without the password anyway, and you can get that after I get myself a brand new arm.”

McCree does, what Genji can’t deny, the best imitation of his very own shit-eating grin at Hanzo and he just about swears his brother will strangle him before he does. He keeps his composure steady, to Genji’s surprise, and only tilts his head to the side.

“That is… fair.”

“Yeah,” he balances back on his heels, spurs jingling as they hit the floor. “I figured.”

Hanzo does that little huff that he does often to signal the end of a conversation and Genji steps forward, putting a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“Let me show you to our medical facilities, you will be staying in a guest room there,” he says in a light tone, attempting to diffuse the bit of tension building.

“That’d be mighty nice of you,” McCree smiles a little warmer at Genji, tilts his hat at Hanzo in a silent goodbye. “Lead the way.”

He does, glancing over his shoulder to take one last look at his brother’s scowling face before leaving.

The grounds are relatively empty as they traverse the maze of Shimada Castle, quiet and peaceful as Genji and McCree stroll along the covered walkways. Most of the snow has been swept away or salted, leaving the trails across buildings clear, but it won’t stay that way for long. Reports have come in calling a light snow later in the week and everything will be blanketed again. Genji huddles into his jacket further allowing the fur lining to tickle his ears as they make their way across a small bridge over a man-made creek. The few guards stationed at calculated intervals bow their heads as Genji walks by, but he doesn’t miss the way they stare suspiciously and expectantly at McCree who towers over him, walks step for step with his long, lanky legs beside him as if they’re equals. He would walk faster if he could without breaking into a light jog as it’s already troublesome enough to keep at the pace he’s set with Jesse leisurely keeping step with him.

“Y’all got yourselves quite the real estate,” he breaks the silence, voice low and conversational as if he’s speaking to an old friend. “Looks smaller on the outside.”

Genji wonders if he’s been snooping around their land or if he’s only ever seen Shimada Castle from the front. What is still within the limits of Hanamura is the main house and the largest of their gardens. It’s friendly and decorated for respective holidays and traditions, it’s meant for greeting people and keeping face to the public that they’re a simple hunting clan; simple in the way that they’re the most powerful and recognized in the country but that’s besides the point. Further in is housing, both for family residents and guests, the dining hall, the meeting room, kitchens, gardens, a very personable area meant for the family. Beyond that is where the business truly takes place. They keep their weapons stored next to where they train, one short, wide building set behind a round covered arena with wooden dummies of various sizes. Behind that, a room of trophies from their father and forefathers to which Genji has only entered twice. The Elders like to show it off when they have company and Hanzo obliges, but Genji always stands outside the doors in wait for their return. They have smaller buildings hidden between larger ones, housing nothing but one, dizzying long staircase that leads to holding cells of various sizes for contracts that don’t require killing. Those, admittedly, have been few and far between these past few years and so they’ve collected dust.

At the very end of Shimada Castle, overlooking a valley that bleeds into the forest, is the Elders’ Sanctuary. An elaborate two story building expanding along the edge of the valley, it is where the Elders live and hold their meetings. Genji hates it and on some level he knows Hanzo does as well, he’s just better at hiding it. It’s the most recent edition, built during their father’s reign and finished a little bit after Hanzo was born, and in Genji’s opinion the most unnecessary. Originally, the Elders had lived in the housing area with everyone else, conducting meetings in the same meeting room as everyone else, eating from the same kitchen as everyone else; and then the Elders collectively thought they were above _everyone else_.

They go no further than the medical building and McCree doesn’t get to witness where they train, where they keep their weapons, doesn’t get to awe at the obnoxious Sanctuary obscuring the beautiful view of the forestline. It’s for the best, Genji thinks as he opens one of the guest room doors, he can feel the other’s tension oozing off him. His discomfort is understandable as Genji had felt the very same in the alleyway, but he’s impressed that McCree has been able to keep himself in one piece for so long. Shimada Castle is as elegant as it is intimidating, or so he’s heard.

“You will be staying here,” Genji announces, flicking on the lights.

It’s a relatively small room, not one meant for staying in for long periods of time but it’ll suffice for the week that McCree is projected to stay. One bed, a small closet, a desk with a lamp sitting to one side, and a bathroom big enough for a sink, toilet, shower, and one person. The interior is decorated plainly, same build as the meeting room, with two windows with shutters framing either side of the sliding door. He won’t need to leave for anything so he won’t have need to wander curiously, breakfast will be served to him in the morning and Genji -- well, he’s responsible for him.

“Ain’t this fancy,” McCree says, mouth sounding full and when Genji turns to look at him he’s got a damn cigarillo between his lips. He reaches up and snatches it away, causing the other man to frown. “‘Cuse me.”

“You can’t smoke in here! These rooms are used for patients,” he gives him an exasperated look, and when he’s met with a blank stare Genji adds, “And not outside either.”

“Awh, c’mon….”

“No.” He says it as if that’ll end the conversation, twirling the cigarillo between his fingers before pocketing it in his coat. “Anyway, someone will be here in the morning with breakfast and scrubs. There should be a change of clothes in the closet.”

“Okay,” Jesse huffs. “Gonna gimme my stick back?”

“Awh, what’s the matter cowboy?” And he has no qualms getting into his personal space. He’s on his turf, not some dingy alleyway; if anything happens to him McCree can forget about getting out of the country. Granted, Genji has to rise up on his tiptoes to even think about getting eye level with him, chest to chest and a cheeky little grin on his face. “Are you on edge?”

“Goddamn right I am and you know it,” he loses his playful, easygoing tone, half-smiling half-sneering down at him. “Stinks like death.”

Genji dances a hand up his good arm as he’d done earlier in the alley, tilting his head to one side. “There are other ways to release tension, you know.”

A diplomat from Europe, Genji can’t remember specifically where, once told him he was as sweet as poison, to which he remembers feeling both proud and confused by. He’d flirted his way through “negotiations” the way Hanzo couldn’t, or wouldn’t really, in an effort to extort information out of him. Genji talked and flaunted and preened all the while mixing the diplomat’s drinks with a paralyzing agent. When they’d finally made it to the bed, he was useless and Genji was able to work his magic.

Genji doesn’t know what it means, if his brand of poison is the sweetest way to go or if he’s about as sweet as poison is, or something with deeper meaning he doesn’t care to look into. He likes the former, likes to think he could be much more malicious if prompted and that coming away with a few kisses and no sex is the best case scenario for a lot of people. He likes to play with his food the way McCree says he doesn’t.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t think the other’s attractive -- he is. _Very_. The cowboy getup might be weird but he’s slept around with weirder. There’s a strong jawline underneath that scruffy beard, a strength in his hands that he’s witnessed, that he wouldn’t mind being at the receiving end in bed, a smell of spice and smoke beneath all that cologne that becomes more apparent the closer he gets, a warm voice with a honeyed accent. He can overlook the cowboy thing.

It’s the werewolf thing, Genji thinks and reminds himself when he gets too close, close enough to see the otherworldly shine in McCree’s eyes that go from a deep brown to a pale silver, back to brown. Werewolf or no, it’s a dance Genji slips into naturally, revels in the way he can get under people’s skin in all the right ways.

“You used to getting what you want by battin’ those pretty little eyes of yours?”

Genji slides his hand back down his arm, keeping McCree’s attention on his face as he answers the question with a question, “You think my eyes are pretty?”

“Sugar, I’ve danced this dance a hundred times,” he leans in closer, nearly looming over Genji with his height. His hand works around that gaudy belt of his, towards the back, feeling for something. “I can keep up.”

At that, Genji barks a laugh and pushes McCree back with his free hand as he pockets the other in his coat. “You are not even on the dance floor, _sugar_.”

He has what he wants anyway.

“I will return in the morning,” and Genji starts walking to the door, sliding it open only to stop when McCree speaks up.

“Aw, what’s a matter? Don't wanna play your little game no more?” He mocks, grinning.

Pulling his hand from his pocket, Genji shows off a small container half full of cigarillos that he’d plucked from the other’s back pocket, shaking it gingerly as he glances over his shoulder.

“But I already have what I want, and all I had to do was bat my pretty little eyes,” he teases, laughing as he leaves. “Goodnight, cowboy.”

He doesn't miss the “ _son of a bitch_ ” from behind the door as he walks away.

On the way back to the main house, Genji tosses the single cigarillo McCree had had in his mouth away and digs through the box for a fresh one. He lights it a ways from the medical facility, inhales a little to test it and hums contently when he figures it'll suffice. He isn't one for smoking often, but he takes pleasure in the little things; this one being taking the werewolf’s stash of smokes and wasting not one but two.

The light in the meeting room is out but there’s a light on in the main house, Hanzo no doubt, and he follows it as smoke trails behind him.

“Put that out before you come in here, it reeks.” Hanzo says before Genji is even at the door. He's sitting on the floor in front of a small ottoman, a cup of steaming tea warming his hands. “Where did you even get that?”

He opts for leaning against the doorframe, blowing smoke rings before answering. “The cowboy.”

“Ugh, you did always share Father’s taste for foreign brands,” he wrinkles his nose as he turns to face his brother. “Is everything situated?”

“I'll talk to the doctor in the morning, but our tourist is in room three,” he pauses, taking a long, slow drag, lets the smoke out just as slow as it billows thickly above him. “Who’s doing the dirty work?”

“Oni’s people -- omnics don’t leave fingerprints. That Jesse McCree is hiding something,” he frowns, stressed, as he stares into his drink. His fingers clench around the cup, knuckles white with the force. “And that datapad better yield results.”

Hanzo doesn't say it, but Genji knows he's worried about the Elders. He frowns in turn, moving indoors despite the cigarillo still between his fingers. Nudging Hanzo’s shoulder with his knee to get his attention, he tilts his head to one side once he looks over.

“Want me to go with you when you speak with them?”

“No…” though he pauses as if he wants to change his mind. “No. It was my decision.”

“No, it was _our_ decision. Quit taking credit for everything,” he teases, but when Hanzo doesn't reciprocate Genji nudges him again. “Seriously, you don't have to take the blame alone. I was the one who brought him in.”

At that, Hanzo smiles weakly. “Don't worry about it, you focus on _him_ , let me deal with the Elders.”

Genji kneels in front of the ottoman and melts into the surface of it, arms outstretched as he purses his lips and mumbles, “You don't have to protect me from them.”

That gets his brother smiling, close-lipped but full and he doesn't even need to say what he's thinking, he's said it before and Genji knows.

_That's what big brothers are for._

 

⭐️

 

Shadows, he's swallowed by them and they are thick, tangible as he sinks into the black void. He doesn't try to escape, not for lack of trying but his limbs are numb, _whole_ , throat constricted and it feels like his heart is choking him. Above him is the dark gray sky, stars dotting the landscape and surrounding the full moon as it glows brightly, almost taunting him. He feels in control, despite his immobility, but the moon doesn't change him, doesn't sing to him as it does when it's full on most nights. The shadows are warm, familiar almost, as the wisps of colorless vapor form hands, arms that wrap around him. They swallow him, bury him, drown him in soundlessness.

And in the darkness, McCree hears him.

_Don't hesitate._

It's at the cusp of dawn when he wakes, a dim light filtering through the windows of the small room and he can see the sky alight with the sun creeping towards the horizon. The room is as empty as it had been when he'd gone to sleep, no breakfast or change of clothes but it might be too early for that. McCree decides that's enough sleep for one night.

From his lack of smokes to his goddamn left arm, nothing last night had gone overly well in terms of rest. It isn't like much of his arm hurts anymore, tender at the joints and where the wound is corded off, but it's a sticky nightmare of dead flesh and muscle, dried blood and whatever the hell the black oily mess is. McCree had none too gracefully pulled his thermal undershirt off and wrapped it around the arm acting as a buffer between his skin and the white bedsheets. He can feel the shirt sticking to him but doesn’t bother peeling it off. Then there was the so-called change of clothes in the closet. Change of clothes for someone Genji’s size maybe, sure, but certainly not for him. So here he is, undershirt sloppily tied around one arm wearing wrinkled jeans and nothing else in a room that smells far too sterile.

He's sure it isn't his newfound pajamas that are causing his insomnia, that's a whole different pile of shit altogether. The dream isn’t a new thing.

McCree desperately wants a shave and a shower, and knows he can technically do only one of those things. In all honesty, he isn’t sure if showering is a good idea either with his arm the way it is but he has about three days worth of filth starting to cake on the rest of him and he’s itching to feel clean. Pulling himself from the bed, he makes his way over to the bathroom, opening the sliding panel before shimmying in. Honestly, everything in this room was made for people who weren’t over six feet tall; the clothes were too small, the ceiling was low enough that if he jumped he’d damn near hit his head on it, and he’s pretty sure this bathroom was made for a child. There’s about a foot and a half of space between the edge of the sink and the wall, the length of it extending to a back to back sink, toilet, and shower. McCree peeks behind the curtain of said shower and snorts. Maybe it would be easier to wait until he had one less limb, then he’d have an arm’s worth of extra room.

The mirror, at least, is tall enough that he doesn’t have to lean down to look at his face. He really is starting to look like a wolfman, if he’s being honest, with his hair a rat’s nest of tangles and waves and his beard thicker than he’s ever let it get. Being on the run constantly doesn’t give for much luxury, but he’s always tried to keep himself well groomed at the very least so he doesn’t attract too much attention.

Too much attention, he says as he dons a serape, cowboy hat, and boots with spurs. It’s part of the getup, though, not just because he finds it aesthetically pleasing. People see dumb American cowboy who doesn’t know what year he’s living in and those same people tend to underestimate him. People eventually get bored of staring and just accept the jingling of spurs and the flapping of his serape as he passes, the slow drawl of his voice as he greets them politely. It makes it easy for him to slip by and take what he needs, to listen in on conversations without asking too many questions. Hanamura is proving difficult to slip in and out undetected, and he’s beginning to regret not going to a larger town. It’s small and everybody knows everyone, _talks_ to everyone, and then there’s the Shimadas. McCree grimaces in the mirror, fumbling one handed with his jeans.

That goddamn brat stole his goddamn cigarillos.

The sound of the front door sliding open catches his attention as his jeans and briefs fold around his ankles. Genji’s nudging it with his foot, hands full of a folded pair of scrubs and a platter of breakfast that smells absolutely heavenly. And McCree would have half the mind to thank him if his pants weren’t on the floor. It’s when he’s halfway to thinking he should probably shut the bathroom door that Genji looks up, surprised expression melting immediately into that shit eating grin he’s so fond of.

“ _Jesus_! Don’t y’all knock!” He manages to slam the panel shut, toeing out of his pants once he’s granted privacy.

“It’s _my_ house, I should not have to knock,” he tries to sound indignant but the amusement seeps into his tone easily. His voice carries over to the bed, the sound of the platter gently clattering on the desk nearby.

McCree can hear his footsteps and is too busy trying to pry the last sleeve of his pants off to catch the door as it slides back open.

“Oh my _god in heaven_.”

Genji clicks his tongue, his grin nearly splitting his face as he leans against the door frame. He has the plain faded blue scrubs in his hands but doesn’t look interested in handing them over.

“Do you mind?” McCree growls, attempting to hold his jeans nonchalantly over his waist.

“Nope.”

“Of course you don’t.”

And they stand there for a good minute, McCree with his pants in one hand attempting to hide himself while Genji leans against the doorframe with his scrubs, purposefully not setting them on the edge of the sink at his convenience. His frown deepens by the second while the other’s grin widens impossibly. It’d be endearing if he wasn’t naked and wounded and filthy.

“Are you going to take your clothes?” Genji asks innocently, holding them out to McCree.

“Set ‘em on the sink.”

He clicks his tongue again, frowning a little. “You are no fun.”

“And you have no shame,” he sighs, motioning with his body for the other to leave. “Thank you.”

Genji hums, too proud of himself for McCree’s liking, and keeps his smug little bit of eye contact as he shuts the door again. He waits a while to listen for his footsteps leaving, but only hears him muddling around the room. McCree huffs, dropping his pants.

He wants a shower.

And sweet Lord baby Jesus if it isn’t the best goddamn shower he’s had in weeks. The water’s hot, the pressure’s just hard enough to practically pelt away the dirt, and the small bar of complimentary soap smells rather comforting. Vanilla and lavender maybe, definitely vanilla and something. Something warm. Despite the cramped quarters, he’s enjoying it, growls low in his throat at the sensation of warm water enveloping him. The wound brings him out of his relaxing daze. He does his best to clean what skin is left so it isn’t a complete disaster when the doctor looks at it, makes sure that the sash is still tight around his forearm so that he doesn’t bleed out in the shower. Wouldn’t that be just what he needed. The claw marks that mar his skin are deep but produce no blood when the water washes over them but runs a dirty, muddied color. McCree doesn’t bother with it much beyond cleaning away the sticky residue. It’ll be gone soon anyway, and it’s really just for comfort’s sake.

The small bathroom now looks like a bathhouse with the amount of steam billowing from the shower, swirling around the room and fogging up the glass with no escape route. Upon exiting the shower, McCree shakes his head from side to side, hair slapping around as water droplets splash onto the walls. It’s reminiscent of a dog shaking itself dry, a habit he picked up when he was young and starting out as a werewolf, and it evolved from something natural to something disdainful and back to something natural that doesn’t bother him all that much when he catches himself in the act. He’s been taught that what he is isn’t shameful, that his quirks should be embraced.

At least he doesn’t smell like wet dog. McCree is thankful for the little things.

Genji is still in the room, he can hear him shuffling around still doing god knows what. It isn’t like he has anything to hide, he’s got two boots, his serape, and hat to look through and the worst he’ll find is a small knife hidden on the inner lining of his right boot so McCree takes his time drying off. He wipes the mirror off with a towel before using it on his hair, staring at himself in the mirror. His beard and hair are still a mess but at least the layer of dirt is visibly gone giving way to olive skin decorated in a light dotting of freckles and scars. There aren’t as many as there would be if he were human, though he wouldn’t be alive if he were to tell the truth, and the scars that remain are silver based. Most are from his pack days, both outside sources and inside, used as punishment if he ever crossed the line. A few of the flashier scars are from his Blackwatch days where the enemies knew what they were up against, wielded silver weaponry like second nature. Now he can add one more, half his arm but he doesn’t know what kind of days these are. Dark days.

McCree dresses in the scrubs Genji brought, clothes that actually fit it seems. The pants have a draw string he doesn’t bother using and the stiff shirt sits a little tight around his shoulders but it’s better than what was sitting in the closet. He slings his jeans and dirty thermal over his shoulder, leaving his one useful arm free to open the sliding door quietly, cautiously. All this hospitality is leaving him on edge and while they need him to open the remaining files of information on the datapad he’d eat both his shoes if they didn’t try hacking it. They won’t get through, it’s why he left it with them. Overwatch security and all that. So he thinks five foot whatever Genji Shimada will try something after bringing him breakfast and a pair of clean, albeit tight scrubs.

Color him paranoid.

Instead he finds Genji sporting his hat and preening in front of the full length mirror in the closet. There’s worst things, sure, like stabbing him with a wooden skewer in the arm, but there’s something childish and silly finding the heir of the Shimada Empire tilting his cowboy hat just so on his fiery green hair and posing. It makes him approachable and McCree can’t help the small chuckle that comes tumbling out of his lips. He doesn’t turn around at the sound, if anything he shows off a bit more.

“I like your hat,” he says, grinning at his own reflection. “Particularly on me.”

“You already took my smokes, can’t have my hat too,” and as playfully as he says it he’ll fight for that hat.

He gave him that hat.

Genji hums thoughtfully, tilting the brim so it hides one eye. “I like your smokes too.”

That one takes McCree a moment as he’s dropping his dirty clothes into a pile at the foot of the bed before snapping his head up. He doesn’t say anything at first but sniffs the air, can smell the cleaning products, the breakfast on the desk, the morning air wafting through the crack in the door, and the faint smell of smoke. _His_ smoke. It clings to his clothes and he walks away from them, padding over to Genji. He’s wearing the same coat from yesterday, hanging down around the bends of his knee with the fur collar tickling his neck. McCree gets close enough that Genji makes eye contact with him in the mirror, a warning not to get _too_ close, but even from here he can smell the lingering smoke.

“What?”

“You _did_ smoke one!” He sounds petulant but it’s his brand, his favorite and he can’t get them anywhere in this town so he was trying to make them last.

There’s also something a little sweet about smelling his cigarillo on Genji that plays to his more animalistic nature but he isn’t going down that road. It conflicts with the other instinct he has when the smell of smoke gives way to the scent of hunter, of blood and it’s a lot less sweet.

Genji laughs at him, that sharp barking sound that always seems to bring him down a few pegs, and slides out from between the closet and McCree.

“Eat your breakfast. I will take you to see the doctor afterwards.”

He mumbles a growling “ _fine_ ” as Genji walks away, seemingly leaving but only to shut the door the rest of the way. It makes him feel boxed in, but he knows it’s only to keep the cold out.

The breakfast is set underneath plastic covers to keep it warm and each one McCree lifts is another plume of delightful smell that makes his stomach growl restlessly. He hasn’t had too much of a proper meal in a while, not entirely too fond of the concept of eating dangerously in foreign countries, but he isn’t going to complain nor snub his nose at anything given to him for free, especially when it smells this good. There’s a pot full of tea, which kind he isn’t sure as he isn’t a tea enthusiast, a relatively small portion of steamed white rice, what looks like porridge garnished with pickled vegetables, miso soup, a fluffy looking omelette roll, a portion of grilled fish that smells close to mackerel, and a bowl of tossed vegetables. And McCree eats every last bit of it. He can feel Genji looking at him from the door where he’s decided to stay, arms crossed and face quizzical.

“Hungry?” He asks, voice neutral.

“You bet I am,” he answers with his mouth half  full of egg.

Genji shifts his weight a little and looks away, like something bothers him but McCree can’t quite tell what it is. He doesn’t ask, simply maneuvers his chopsticks delicately holding a ball of rice to his mouth before it crumbles in his faulty technique.

“Well be quick about it,” Genji says, moving to lean against the wall. “The sooner we rid you of that arm, the better.”

Breakfast goes by quickly and quietly, save for McCree’s hungry chewing and not-so subtle swears when the chopsticks don’t agree with him. It’s a welcomed distraction from what’s to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blizzard sure was testing me to see if I could get this done by the end of the week like I had wanted to. Now to revel in the Halloween goodies!
> 
> I don't have a set schedule for updates, but I have everything outlined beginning to end so expect them maybe every two weeks.
> 
> A big thank you to everyone's patience/comments/kudos ❤ feel free to hit me up on madamerioulette@tumblr


	3. Dance the Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My father used to tell us,” Genji unconsciously strays to look at one of the pictures on the wall to McCree’s right. “That not all beasts are monsters, and not all monsters take the form of a beast."

Genji doesn’t want another morning like this one. He doubts that circumstances would come to pass exactly like this a second time, and if they do he’ll swear he’s cursed, but it doesn’t stop him from wishing it from happening again. Once is once too many. It’s getting up at the ass crack of dawn by Hanzo because he’s responsible for the oversized dog in their medical house, and bringing breakfast to him like some kind of nursemaid. It’s the fact that no one in this compound has been able to crack the code to McCree’s datapad to grab the rest of the information on it. Not that they’re thinking about going back on their deal, they have a reputation to uphold, but they’re impatient and a little untrusting. It’s arguing with Hanzo as they eat their morning meal because he’s stubborn and so adamant to keep Genji away from the Elders sometimes that it drives him nuts. They’re having a meeting later in the morning and he’s not invited, Genji spends breakfast spitting harmless fire at Hanzo for it. It’s how he’s being treated like the child he used to be, uninterested and irresponsible now strong and reasonable. He fights the urge to tell Hanzo that Jesse McCree is a wolf in cowboy’s clothing and that sending him to play babysitter for him is presumably worse than sitting in on a meeting.

That’s not entirely true. Getting an eyeful of a naked McCree certainly wasn’t the worst. You don’t get that kind of entertainment during a meeting with the Elders, but that’s besides the point.

It’s the principal of the thing, that Genji is talking circles around McCree as he’s strapped to an operating table and babbling that he doesn’t want to be left alone. The only other people in the room are the doctor and her nurse, two very competent people who have done this sort of surgery before. Genji isn’t even allowed in when they begin the operation, but it somehow bothers McCree that he won’t be in the same building. It’s a blessing in disguise that he doesn’t have to explain why he can’t be in the same room, it isn’t just the fact that he’d be taking up unnecessary space in a sterile environment.

Genji is having an issue with his wound, an issue that until this point had been easy to get around because McCree was always wearing that weird red blanket thing over it. The scrubs have short sleeves, there’s a bright fluorescent light shining down on it, it’s right below him and Genji’s keeping the strictest eye contact with McCree that he’s ever kept with anyone. He’s having trouble admitting that it unsettles him, that it brings up an ugly scar that’s taken years to heal.

No one is ever going to get Genji to admit he feels guilty about what happened to Hanzo six years ago, not even Hanzo but that’s due to the fact that Genji hardly ever needs to say something for him to know. Father didn’t take him because he hadn’t been ready, he hadn’t trained enough, he hadn’t sat in on the lectures or studied avian monsters or read the history of harpies or _been prepared_. He would’ve been a liability and there’s not a day that Genji doesn’t wish he would’ve been the liability to take Hanzo’s place. And Hanzo just brushes off the guilt, says it’s pointless and useless and what’s done is done, there’s no changing it. He’s grown accustomed to his legs, takes to almost boasting about them when they’re serving company, that he survived a dreaded harpy attack and Genji hates it, the guilt burning up his throat.

So Genji doesn’t want another morning like this one.

“I fail to see why me being in the vicinity will help,” he sighs impatiently, shifts his weight from one leg to the other.

McCree fidgets as much as the restraints allow him and maybe those are the problem, the two leather straps across his right arm, only the one on his upper arm on his left, and one thick strap across his middle. Or maybe it’s being left in a room full of strangers and Genji is the only constant he’s had thus far. It’s probably a combination of things, he can see the glint of fear in his eyes as he seemingly tries to piece together an excuse that doesn’t sound as childish as he’s acting.

“Thought you were suppose to watch me, make sure I ain’t up to no good ‘n all that.”

“Yes, but you are secured to a table,” Genji stresses.

“About that….”

“It is necessary in case you start fidgeting around in the middle of it, okay? It would have been easier to give you a general anesthesia, but you already ate this morning.” He softens his tone a bit, relaxes his stance. “As the person who is suppose to ‘watch you’, I can promise you you’re in good hands. They did the operation once before, they can do it again and will treat you well.”

That settles McCree just enough that it softens the edges of fear in his eyes and Genji takes it as a small victory.

“Listen.” He turns away from the doctor and nurse on the other side of the room and sits carefully on the edge of the operation table, lowering his voice as he continues, “I know we have not exactly earned each other’s trust, but I need to you trust me now. No unnecessary harm will come to you, they will finish the procedure, and you will not wake up in a tub of ice missing internal organs.”

The last bit gets a sharp laugh out of McCree and Genji smiles.

“Alright… alright,” he sighs, settling as comfortably as he can on the table. There’s a look in his eyes that says he wants to say something more, a question maybe, but he opts not to ask. Instead McCree closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“He’s ready,” Genji says to the doctor, motioning her over with a hand as he hops off. In English, he adds with his fingers up in a peace sign, “See you in two hours!”

He thinks about crashing the meeting with Hanzo and the Elders all the while making sure McCree’s room is cleaned and ready when he’s out of recovery. Someone takes his clothes to wash, someone else takes the bed sheets and wash towels, another takes the finished tray of breakfast and looks mildly surprised that it’s picked clean. They gossip while they work, about the strange foreigner they’ve let into their home and Genji assures them he won’t be here long, no he isn’t a prisoner, _no_ they don’t need to keep him a secret from Hanzo because he’s sleeping with him -- although that wouldn’t be the first time he’s had to ask them to keep quiet -- and the help giggles at the face he makes when he answers. And _no_ that doesn’t mean he _is_ and Hanzo knows because he _isn’t_.

It’s been a very trying morning.

By the time Genji is at the steps of the Elders’ Sanctuary he’s decided to just wait for his brother to finish. It’s not that he’s afraid of being rude because he isn’t, but they weren’t the ones who didn’t invite him. Hanzo asked to do this alone and he’s afraid that going anyway will undermine him, and if it’s one thing the Elders like to dot on it’s Hanzo “letting Genji undermine” him. He huffs at the thought, leaning against one of the support beams keeping the overhang up above the porch. It isn’t like he means to undermine Hanzo, although he’s very aware when he does on accident, and it isn’t that his brother thinks of it like that, although he knows that’s exactly what’s happening. It’s a very careful dance around a line that barely exists, that Hanzo is the leader of the Shimada Clan and Genji is second, but they’re brothers and in each other’s eyes they’re equal. So when Genji raises his voice at Hanzo it isn’t meant out of disrespect, and when Hanzo doesn’t invite Genji to meetings it isn’t because he’s unworthy. They’re just doing what brothers do, whether it’s annoying one another or protecting one another. But all the Elders ever seem to see is disrespect and lack of control.

He’s being unfair, clumping all the Elders into one pile. It’s one in particular, Elder Yori, who acts as leader to the other six that make up the council and, if Genji’s being honest, it’s only because he has the loudest voice. He’s the oldest of the seven with morals to match; he likes things preserved and unchanged and done by the books but it’s also 2067 and he needs to learn to bend just a bit. Genji sympathizes a little, in all fairness, since he is technically taking orders from two people practically a quarter of his age, but he also needs to deal with the cards he’s been dealt like the rest of them. He likes to go on about how it was _difficult_ when their father died.

Not that Hanzo or Genji would know anything about losing _another_ parent.

The door to the building slides open with a force hard enough that it nearly shakes Genji from his reverie. There’s frantic shouting from inside the building that filters out as Hanzo storms past him, almost missing his brother altogether. He looks back at him as he pushes off the beam and falls into step, and Hanzo sets a less hurried pace than before.

“Lord Shimada!” Hanzo doesn’t turn around, but Genji does just in time to see Elder Yori in a frazzled mess trying to catch up with them. He stops at the door, catching his breath. “I was merely suggesting --”

“The meeting has ended. We are finished,” his voice is firm, cold and it makes Genji smile wickedly.

He looks put off, frowning beneath his well-trimmed beard but gathers himself all the same. Dusting off his robes and running a hand through his short, greying hair Elder Yori bows and says with a tight voice, “As you wish.”

When he looks up, Genji gives him a cocky little peace sign and immaturely sticks his tongue between his fingers. The door slams shut with just as much force as it had opened.

“Don’t instigate things, please.” And altogether Hanzo’s former gusto leaves him in one fitful rush of air.

“Things did not go well, I presume.” The smile has left his face, twisting downward in concern as he turns to his brother.

“Yes and no,” he cards his long hair from his face to pull it back into a loose ponytail. “They don’t mind the deal we struck with McCree, a little skeptical, but if it pays off in the end they don’t seem to have a problem with it. If he’s lying and the datapad yields nothing, we kill him, it’s as simple as that.”

Genji blinks, eyes narrowed. “So, what exactly is the issue?”

“That we did not discuss it with them first. I went ‘over their heads’.” That gets a bark of a laugh out of Genji and Hanzo wishes he could revel in the absurdity of it just the same. “They also pulled the ‘Genji is out of control’ card again, because you brought him in.”

“How out of control though? Is it the ‘he’s picking up strange people in uncouth places’ or ‘he’s undermining your authority’?”

That gets a small chuckle out of Hanzo. “Both.”

Genji pumps his fist into the air a little. “New record!”

“Take this seriously,” but the chuckle evolves into a full laugh that he tries to talk around.

“I think,” he gently slaps Hanzo on the back. “You’re taking this _too_ seriously. There was no way they weren’t going to be a least a little pissy about this, okay? So don’t stress or you’ll get premature grey hairs.”

“I don’t share your vanity, brother,” he says, despite the pinched expression he wears.

“And wrinkles if you keep up that face.” Genji laughs as Hanzo shoves him away, but he leans back in throwing an arm over his shoulder. “Come on, let’s go relax in the bathhouse for a bit before we get back to work.”

 

⭐️

 

Despite his reservations, the operation goes without a hitch. The room smells different than the rest of Shimada Castle, a good different for which McCree is thankful. He smells citrus scented cleaning products with a hint of bleach, the soap he used this morning in the shower, the light dusting of perfume from one of the women operating on him, and underneath it all the unfortunate stench of his arm. McCree does his best to keep his eyes anywhere but there, to keep still whenever he sees the doctor going to touch it but he keeps flinching just enough that he can hear her small frustrated _tuts_ behind her surgical mask. The nurse tries to make small talk, introduces herself as Michi and McCree does the same, indulging in the distraction when she asks where he’s from. Santa Fe, New Mexico is his answer and he tells her about it, embellishing just a little because the part of town he spent most of his life in wasn’t at all glamorous. She asks if they all dress like the cowboys from the movies there and he tries not to laugh so that he doesn’t disturb the doctor.

It’s reminiscent of the time he got shot in the stomach on a mission back in Blackwatch, though the operation had been done in the back of one of their carriers tens of thousands of feet in the air. The silver was stuck and it burned and every time Angela tried to dig it out he’d squirm and make it worse. Ana had better bedside manner, took his hand in her own and sat next to him, opposite Angela, to talk to him. It had been mindless and one-sided, stories about what kind of trouble Fareeha, her daughter, had gotten herself into just the week before. The memory was bittersweet, a remembrance of better days during better times and when everything was whole. He misses them, Ms. Amari and her sweet, yet firm voice, her daughter waltzing into his room in the barracks whenever she was bored because she knew if he wasn’t busy he’d indulge, Angie’s warning looks when he first arrived and her softening voice after the umpteenth time he ended up in the infirmary as if she’d been practicing her bedside manner.

He loses himself to the thought and before he realizes one hour’s past and they’re wrapping what’s left of his arm in gauze. They move him to a smaller room within the same building to recover and wait for Genji, this one smells less like cleaning products and more relaxing. Michi lights a small incense stick on the table in the corner of the room and bows politely before leaving him. McCree takes a moment to survey the room, just big enough for the long hospital bed he’s lying in, the short, square table carrying the incense, and a plush armchair to his right. There’s a single window on his left with the curtains open enough that a sliver of light dances across the sheets he’s been wrapped in. It’s cramped, but he doesn’t think he’ll be getting up anytime soon. He’s tired from a restless night, the last few days full of excitement and anxiety, but he feels lighter. Maybe it’s Genji’s words finally sinking in, no harm will come to him, he’s safe, he _promised_.

Or it could be he’s missing his left arm from the elbow down.

McCree drifts to sleep and dreams of Blackwatch, the good days and the bad.

 

There’s a rhythmic beeping on his right, just loud enough that it rouses him slowly from his nap. The room is brighter than he remembers it, the natural light outside is filtering in unhindered by the curtains. McCree blinks blurrily through the groggy haze of sleep still clinging to him and subsequently through his mussed hair to see an out of focus Genji lounging in the armchair next to the bed. He’s laying in it horizontally with his legs bent over one side, ankles crossed, and his head propped against the wall, the tip of his tongue sticking out in concentration as he focuses on a handheld device. McCree stays quiet a while, blinking the sleep from his eyes as he tries to focus on Genji, whose focus is solely on whatever is happening on the small screen in front of him. The chiptune music is accompanied by some rough fighting sounds and a disappointing chorus of “ _K.O._ ” to compliment the growing pout on Genji’s face.

“ _Kuso_ ….” He swears under his breath, sinking further into the chair. Amber eyes flick over to him briefly, then again to keep his gaze as Genji realizes he’s awake. “Oh, I did not realize you were awake.”

“Haven’t been fer long,” McCree answers, voice thick with sleep.

Genji situates himself more comfortably on the chair, sitting upright as he folds the handheld and pockets it. “How are you feeling?”

“Lighter than usual, like y’all took that kidney.” Genji chuckles at that before McCree answers more honestly, “M’fine, all things considered.”

He hums, tilting his head to one side to try and get a look at the other’s arm. “Does it hurt?”

McCree hesitates a moment, looks at the closed door then back at Genji. Quietly, he responds, “It’s healin’ just fine, should be good in two, three days.”

He gawks, leaning forward. “Seriously?”

“Is that gonna be suspicious?” He asks as he sits up, the motion a little awkward as he feels uneven without the extra weight.

Genji hums again, readjusting his position so he can get a closer look. “If you think it will heal that fast, yes, but you let me worry about that. Let me see it.”

McCree twists his upper body, holds out what’s left of his arm. “You’re sure?”

“I told you to trust me,” he quietly sing-songs as he unwraps the gauze enough to peek at the skin. The amusement drops from his face as he sees the bloody flaps of skin folded over and stitched together to create a smooth finish for his prosthetic. The skin has already started to knit together and heal, a process that should technically take about a week. “Holy shit, you weren’t kidding.”

“Being a monster has its perks.”

Genji flinches slightly like he said the wrong thing but doesn’t say anything of it, just wraps the gauze in place and leans back in the chair. “It will be a boring week for you then.”

“Do I gotta stay in this room?” He makes a face because if that’s the case, it will be one hell of a boring week indeed.

“No,” Genji says in a seriousness that doesn’t match that sharp smile beginning to spread. “You also have your guest room to mope around in.”

“Riveting.” McCree deadpans.

“And me to keep you company through it all.”

McCree doesn’t quite believe him, but in the couple days to come Genji’s words hold true. Every morning around the crack of dawn, much to Genji’s chagrin it seems, he’s there with breakfast freshly prepared, sometimes just for him and sometimes for them both. He’ll spend the day with him doing a variety of things; reading up on mission details and texting Hanzo on which teams to send out, playing little games on his handheld and giving McCree a play by play, chatting about a myriad of topics just to keep the day going. Sometimes McCree gets curious and for the sake of conversation asks questions he knows won’t get answers to, like the sort of work they do in their downtime, or just how many pies do they have their little fingers in. Genji deflects it easily enough with a teasing comment or flirty undertone to veer to conversation elsewhere, but he doesn’t ever scold him for it so McCree tries his luck from time to time. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out the Shimadas don’t do the most legal of work, though the details are lost to him as he’d never been stationed in Japan during his stint at Blackwatch. They have an air about them that reeks untouchable, that it isn’t just the fact they keep most of their country safe from monsters and the like that gives them their infamous name that’s a staple in business conversations. If he were to take a guess, McCree is fairly certain they have contacts in the weapons and technology industry at the very least. But he can’t ever get a word out of Genji about it, so they spend their days with trite topics between them.

On the third day of his recovery, Genji surprises him.

“Get up, get dressed,” he sighs exasperatedly, unceremoniously dropping his clean clothes on the foot of his bed. “If I have to spend one more day in this room I’ll go crazy, we are going out for breakfast.”

“Am I even allowed to go out?” McCree asks, though it’s not as if he’s complaining. He’s starting to feel a little cabin feverish too.

“Not out of the compound, no. But we are getting some fresh air.”

“Ain’t gonna argue with that,” and he’s up in an instant, eager to leave the cramped room. This lethargic waiting around is doing him no good.

McCree undresses with the same difficulty as getting dressed, but Genji doesn’t offer to help and for that he’s thankful. It takes him a little while to pull the shirt off, and shimmies out of his pants while he peers over his shoulder at Genji to see if he sneaks a peek. He’s looking at his phone, uninterested for a time until McCree pulls up his clean pair of briefs and catches the other winking at him. It's a lot more endearing now that he's clean and without a dead arm hanging off him. McCree winks back, tugging up his pants.

“Why do you wear a blanket?” He asks, seemingly out of nowhere with no connection to the fact that he’d stolen a glance at his behind.

It throws him for a minute, both with the question and the wording. He mouths _blanket_ inquisitively before the light clicks on in understanding. “Oh, no it’s called a serape. Kinda like one of them ponchos but without the hole in the middle.”

“Huh…” Genji tilts his head to one side curiously. “So it is part of the cowboy getup?”

“It was a gift, but yes,” he says it a little defensively without meaning to.

The other’s quiet a moment before leaning back on the balls of his feet. “It suits you. Now hurry up and put on your serape blanket thing and let’s goooo.”

“Alright, hold your horses, lemme get my shirt on first!”

They get a series of odd looks when they leave the infirmary, not so much from the medical staff who seem busy with more important things but from the two guards stationed outside. They're new, McCree notes, they weren't outside the last time they arrived. He wonders who stationed them, Genji or Hanzo. The latter, he thinks, given their surprised and curious expressions. One of them speaks up, in Japanese, and Genji fires back with a nonchalant tone and a dismissive wave of his hand. Neither of them respond afterwards and he and Genji continue down the walkway.

It's quiet, a peaceful quiet and not the quiet before the storm type that McCree is expecting. They still get stares but no one says anything, not to him and not to Genji, they only bow politely as the two pass. There must have been a light snowfall recently, some of the uncovered paths are dusted in a thin white blanket and further towards their destination he spots some of the house workers shoveling it away. He never used to like the snow that much when he was younger, hated the cold desert nights as he and the Deadlock Pack traveled across New Mexico, loathed getting up at the ass crack of dawn to run drills at Watchpoint where the wicked salt spray of the ocean created a sticky chill for the recruits. McCree doesn’t have a stable life anymore -- not to call something like Deadlock stable, but it had been a constant -- so now he revels in the small things. It’s still cold as hell, werewolf or no, but he enjoys it more than he did as a younger man.

Genji, on the other hand, doesn’t seem too thrilled. He can practically hear his teeth chattering next to him and he hides himself in the depth of his fur coat. By the time they reach their destination, the tip of his nose and his rounded cheeks are flushed red.

They enter a short hallway and the temperature difference hits them instantly. Genji quickly shuts the panel and leads them down to where the smell of breakfast thickens in the air, assaulting McCree’s senses when the door to the left opens. The dining room is cozy, small, and decorated in a homely manner that rivals that of the meeting room. The walls are a muted green with dark wood borders and furniture to accent it, a soft white light from the simple bowl light above brightening the room. A tapestry hangs between two family pictures adjacent to the door, to the left two smaller panels to a presumed closet, and on the right an odd, abstract art nouveau sculpture that almost seems out of place in the divot in the wall. The low sitting table holds a fresh, steaming breakfast in individual bowls and personal platters similar to the meals Genji has been bringing to him and McCree can hear his stomach grumble eagerly.

Eating is usually a quiet affair between the two of them. They don’t know enough about one another to engage in casual small talk, they’re both still skirting the edges too much to learn about each other, and what talk is had is usually on Genji’s side as McCree’s more a listening type of guy anyway. This morning is a little different, but starts out all the same, with quiet chewing and the occasional hum of appeasement from McCree as he tastes something new. They’re in a new environment though and while McCree’s more a listening type of guy, there are times in his life -- many, if he’s honest -- where he doesn’t know when to shut up.

“So is your hesitation to help me dress and stuff something of a formal thing or something you learned when your brother lost his legs.”

His commander did always say he lacked tact.

“Neither, I figured --” Genji pauses around his food, caught mid-chew when the question finally hits him. There’s a quick expression of surprise flitting across his face before he hides it under a scowl. “I never said it was my brother.”

“You takin’ me for both blind _and_ dumb?” McCree lifts an eyebrow, smirking. “He ain’t exactly hidin’ his prosthetics.”

He takes immediate interest in his breakfast, taking a breath between swallowing his food and answering, “I figure if you need help, you will ask.”

“I will,” he assures. “People just tend to be overbearing when this sorta stuff happens. Was just wonderin’ if that didn’t go over well with your brother, or if it was a formality of our relationship.”

“Our relationship?” Genji chuckles softly, wiping away some of the stiffness from the previous question. “And what would you describe our relationship?”

McCree makes a nondescript hand gesture between them, lowering his voice. “Ya know, man like you, _thing_ like me, working together for the greater good n’ all that but keeping it on a professional level.”

“I saw you naked.” Genji says nonchalantly, raising his eyebrows. “You call that professional?”

“I call that you being ill-timed and without shame.”

Genji puts a hand over his chest and pouts dramatically. “You are so cruel.”

McCree smiles innocently, wide and close-lipped, before continuing with his breakfast. A minute passes, he thinks, before the other speaks again.

“Don’t….” McCree stops to look up to see Genji frowning, words caught in his throat.

“Don’t?”

He licks his lips. “Don’t… sell yourself short, I think is the phrase. When you call yourself a monster, a thing, as if you are the same as that harpy, as the things we have hunted.”

McCree puts his chopsticks down. “Ain’t I?”

“No.”

“You’re sure ‘bout that?”

His eyes flash, fill with that otherworldly silver that catches a light source that isn’t the lamp above them. It’s not a threat, but peaked curiosity that settles after a while, dies back and fades into the brown of his irises. It’s also a reminder, in case his days lying in bed, being human had somehow given the other cause to forget. He doubts that to be the case, but his words are strange and, above all, confident as they are slow and carefully picked.

“My father,” Genji unconsciously strays to look at one of the pictures on the wall to McCree’s right.

He takes a moment to follow his gaze to a framed photograph with two young boys, Hanzo and Genji, and what he presumes is their father between them, hugging them both close. There’s a reservation in their father’s expression, his tight smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes lined with crow’s feet, but Hanzo and Genji are both smiling bright enough for him, great big grins sweeping across their faces as if they’re giggling about something.

“My father used to tell us,” Genji starts again, eyes on the table now. “That not all beasts are monsters, and not all monsters take the form of a beast. Hanzo never quite took to it but I….”

There’s that look that flits across his face again from a few days ago, like he wants to say something but doesn’t.

“I have killed my fair share of monsters, I know what a monster looks like and it isn’t you so don’t sell yourself short.” Genji prods at his food before picking it up. “That is the reason why I treat you the way I do, not because there is an invisible line between us.”

McCree blinks, watches the man across the table continue eating nonchalantly as if he hadn’t just stated something so profound. There’s something petulant in him that stirs for a moment, something young and wild and from when had nothing, something that makes him want to spit and howl that he doesn’t know shit about him and doesn’t have the right to tell him how to see himself. It isn’t said with condescension but McCree can’t fathom that for a moment Genji can possibly understand him either. As far as he’s concerned, he lost his humanity when he was thirteen-years-old and has just been civil about it ever since. But Genji does this dance on that invisible line and maybe McCree had mistaken it for confidence earlier, being on his turf in his home where he’s untouchable. Maybe it’s because he thinks the way he does, that he plays cautious the way one is cautious about fire, because he knows the fire won’t burn him without cause.

It’s McCree’s turn to look as if he wants to say something, it’s on the tip of his tongue but he swallows it. He picks up his chopsticks and resumes eating.

“Why doesn’t your brother take to what your father said?” He asks after a few mouthfuls.

“Do you know what else my brother does not take to?” Genji’s voice is chipper this time, no more hushed tones in case anyone passes by and takes a listen. “Pickles. Plain pickles, can you believe that?”

He’s deflecting, and McCree understands. For once, he’ll have a little tact.

“ _No._ I can’t imagine the kind of embarrassment you gotta endure walkin’ around with a brother you don’t like pickles.” He chuckles.

“Ugh, I _know_!”

 

Five days after the operation and Hanzo finally notices McCree is off his proverbial leash. In all honesty, he’s surprised that someone didn’t whisper to him earlier that Genji had been taking him out to eat in the dining room, to sit in the courtyard for a smoke, just to walk around the public parts of his home for fresh air because it’s starting to get very stale sitting around all day. Of course, McCree is almost positive that he timed it all to make sure Hanzo wouldn’t take notice and accidentally walk past them on their afternoons out, but that’s besides the point. There’s no escaping it today, however, not after Hanzo calls Genji to see if he wanted to take the day to spar. He assumes Hanzo thought he’d be left with a nurse, given the look of surprise he gets when they saunter up towards their outdoor arena. There’s a stern conversation that follows, McCree excluded from it as they hide themselves behind their native tongue, so he excuses himself downwind of the structure to light up a cigarillo. Genji hasn’t given him his box back yet, but he permits him to have one whenever they’re out and away from the medical facility for prolonged periods of time all the while stating he shouldn’t smoke while he’s injured.

They act the same as before, McCree thinks, even after their little conversation over breakfast. He tried to bring it up once more and Genji deftly deflected it with a question that led into a smooth, albeit unrelated subject change. So he leaves it where they left it, on the breakfast table between them like thick fog. There’s something unsaid on Genji’s end, and maybe a little on McCree’s as he hasn’t been totally honest with him, but whatever it is, it isn’t going to be said. There are moments, he recalls, where he thinks Genji acts a little softer, sometimes when he thinks McCree isn’t paying attention or asleep, catches a look, watches as he rocks on his heels and stares at the ceiling like he’s amping himself for something and comes up with _hurry up and get dressed_ not that he minds the show any, he’s sure. Maybe he’s overthinking it and he’s always done those things, and it’s only now that he sees it because what Genji said is clinging to him.

Their father, if anything, was a wise man. That much McCree is sure of.

The other thing McCree is sure of is that there is a demon inside the Shimada brothers.

Never in his life has he seen anyone fight the way they do. It is as unnatural as it is beautiful the way they dance across the floor, blades out and whistling through the air in clean, calculated movements. Genji strikes like a cobra, coiled up and defensive as Hanzo comes at him like a wave in broad swings and only when he lets up -- he has an affinity to leaving his right side exposed, McCree notices -- does Genji strike, swift and deadly and knocking him against his ribs with the flat of his blade with a laugh as he dances past and puts distance between them once again, coiling. There’s an electricity in the air that he can almost taste, can smell like ozone in the wind as he taints it with his smoke. The energy is almost familiar, calls to him in such a way that he has to quiet the beast and lower his gaze under his hat, but he doesn’t look away. It’s something in their eyes, amber alit with discolor, with blues and greens. It’s something on their person, the smell wafting from them like something tangible, to be tasted if McCree stuck his tongue out to the air. It’s something like a shimmer dancing on their blades, a reflection of something that isn’t there but too distorted, too quick to catch what it is.

It’s something unnatural as it is beautiful and McCree can’t look away.

It’s a dance, there’s cunning and a sharpness that rivals Genji’s smile with every step he takes, the silver talons on his footwear barely scraping against the ground and how the wind shifts around them, almost taking McCree’s hat along for the ride, when Hanzo surges forward with broad sweeping strikes. It’s a graceful art, a mimicry of everything they do whether it’s the way they carry themselves or speak and even in this, in something so deadly. It’s no wonder why they command the rooms they walk into, not a question on his tongue as to why they garner the respect they’ve built their city upon. It’s an otherworldly essence that he’s familiar with, though it’s the source that’s unfamiliar.

McCree watches a storm and feels like it could swallow him whole.

They finish with a bow to one another and the air settles, not in movement but in thickness, and the smell and taste are gone from McCree. His cigarillo has burned away to nothing but a stub, his concentration elsewhere. Genji says so when he comes over to him, waving at him and when he doesn’t move he snaps his fingers in front of McCree’s face to get his attention.

“Earth to Moon Man, come in,” he exhales heavily, breathing labored as he comes down from practice. McCree blinks down at him, unconsciously moving the stub of a cigarillo up to his mouth only to be disappointed. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” he says, staring up at Hanzo briefly who stares right back, gaze cold. There’s nothing otherworldly about him, nor Genji when he looks back, eyes amber and quiet, if inquizzitive.

“Okay, well let’s go before I catch a cold. I want a bath.”

It’s almost natural now to be at Genji’s side, the stares from guards and passersby have stopped and Genji seems to have stopped trying to out pace him so that he’s in front by just a hair. It’s strange to him how normal everything is starting to feel despite the contrary. It’s not that he feels safe because he certainly doesn’t, there’s that constant smell of hunter in the air that reminds him, that if he isn’t careful someone will pick up one of his ticks or two and figure him out for what he truly is. But Genji makes it seem normal for all their abnormalities, even before their talk at breakfast, even before they arrived at Shimada Castle. It was there, under the decaying trunk of a tree, hollowed and long forgotten, when he approached with caution for both their sakes. He doesn’t have to wonder what his fate would’ve been if he’d come across the other Shimada, the older, colder one.

_I know what a monster looks like._

It’s partially true. McCree spent a good part of his younger years thinking that that’s exactly what he was and nothing was ever going to change it. Then Overwatch hauled his sorry ass out of the mud and taught him different. For seven years he had them, Overwatch, Blackwatch, a family of ragtag sorts of human and non-human alike. And it wasn’t until it all came crashing down that he realized how much of a security blanket they had been; hell, even the Deadlock Pack had been something like that as destructive as they’d been. For the first year after Overwatch had gone up in flames, McCree waited. He waited for the civility to fade and for the instincts to settle back in that the Deadlock Pack had instilled in him like a disease. He waited for the red hot anger to fill his lungs like oil and drown him. He waited, and then he stopped because Overwatch -- _he_ \-- didn’t haul his sorry ass out of the mud for him to sit around and rot in it again. McCree wasn’t going to be the wasteful ingrate he’d been when they found him, wasn’t going to waste the second chance he’d been given. The humanity in him wouldn’t let him, humanity he’d been given back.

So Genji isn’t completely wrong, and in all honesty McCree can say the same about him in the way that he’s a hunter with a conscious and he can count on one hand how many of those he’s run into in his life. And as fearful as it was to watch him fight, that unnatural feeling that built up around them, around McCree, there’s a familiarity in it that comforts him the same way Blackwatch used to. He brings it up to Genji after he’s had his bath and they’re both sitting up on his balcony outside his room, a place he’s never been invited into but he can’t entirely blame him.

“You fight like something possessed, you know that?”

Genji chuckles around his cigarillo, the third this week he’s stolen from McCree’s stash. “That is not the first time I’ve heard that.”

McCree looks at him, head dipped down to hide his eyes enough that it’s comfortable when they flash silver, knowing Genji’s the only one who can see it. “That isn’t what I meant.”

He doesn’t get an immediate response and watches as Genji hums thoughtfully, turning away from him to take in another slow drag of his cancer stick. When he exhales it’s quick, the flavor not savored, and the thick smoke mixes with his hot breath cooling in the air. He grins, turning back to McCree, and some of the smoke seeps out from between his teeth.

“I know what you meant,” he says coyly. “It is a secret.”

“Why am I not surprised?” McCree rolls his eyes, leaning in to curl his lips around his own cigarillo.

“I don’t know why you bother asking sometimes,” Genji chuckles, bumping shoulders with him. “You would not believe me anyway if I told you.”

That gets his attention, another glimmer in his eyes. “Oh yeah? Try me.”

“Alright.” And McCree can’t help but feel a little uneasy as to how quickly Genji gave way to his questioning. He leans his elbows on the balcony, voice lowered further as he turns his eyes up at the other. “We are cursed with dragon’s blood.”

McCree’s quiet for a moment, takes in his words and then his scent. He’s never met a dragon before, but the scent of something inhuman isn’t hard to pick up. It’s pungent, an obvious aroma in the air that he hasn’t smelled but once while in the Shimada Castle. There’s the smell of their smoke in the cold winter air, the underlying scent of Genji’s bath and the soaps he used, his clean clothes that now have cigarillo smoke clinging to it, the natural earthy smell of his skin, the blood beneath roaring through his body; nothing.

“Your silence is truly riveting,” Genji snickers, turning away from him as he goes to take another smoke.

“I didn’t say I didn’t believe you.”

“You did not say anything.”

“I’m tryin’ to smell it.” Genji gives him a look out of the corner of his eye and McCree is quick to add, “The dragon’s blood.”

That gets a quiet chuckle out of him. “I did not mean it literally, we are not true dragons. It’s…” Genji pauses, fighting around the right words similarly to how he’d been struggling at breakfast those couple days ago. He settles on, “Complicated.”

“Complicated like convoluted or complicated like you just don’t wanna tell me?”

“The second one,” Genji grins, but there’s something tight about it, like it isn’t out of secrecy that’s holding his tongue but something deeper, more personal.

McCree for the second time this week reads the conversation correctly and leaves the topic alone, instead veering off to something less heavy so he can hear Genji’s light laugh echo through the early evening.

 

⭐️

 

Hanzo calls a meeting on the eighth day. Eight days since McCree came to him for help, a desperation in his eyes that Genji still recalls vividly, a desperation that still clings at the edges of McCree’s eyes when he catches him unaware. Eight days since Hanzo sent Oni and their team to search the whole of Hanamura for anything on their foreign visitor. Eight days since their best and brightest have attempted to break into the datapad they were left with, though at this point on the eighth day it doesn’t particularly matter one way or another. Eight days and McCree’s prosthetic is finished, a smooth metal finish on the bicep with vents slated on the tricep, ready to be attached.

It’s been a long and wild eight days of keeping one largely destructive secret from his brother and the rest of Shimada Castle, of getting to know McCree in subtle ways and he’s sure McCree can say the same about him, of regurgitated memories he’s long since buried -- and really, they should stay that way. McCree’s an anomaly though, he is the very definition of what they hunt and what people fear and in the same breath he isn’t, he’s the grey area in between that their father used to talk about. And of course the universe would throw the grey area in Genji’s face, the soft soul of the Shimada Clan, not Hanzo who sees in black and white and maybe that’s why. Hanzo would’ve killed McCree, there’s no denying it, whether he carved a home for his blade between his ribs or left him there to die underneath the decaying trunk of a tree. Genji doesn’t think that would be any better, but it would’ve been a hell of a lot less off his own shoulders.

“You’re being awfully friendly with him,” Hanzo says after his greeting, watching Genji situate himself in a chair across from him.

“Is this what the meeting’s about?”

He doesn’t miss the way Genji rolls his eyes. “No, just an observation.”

“How else is he suppose to trust us if we aren’t a little hospitable, hm? Isn’t that why you put me in charge of watching him?” There’s a childish glint in Genji’s eye. “Because you would’ve scared him away?”

“Very funny,” it’s Hanzo’s turn to roll his eyes. “Just don’t get attached, he’s leaving tomorrow.”

He chuckles lowly. “Brother, please, he’s technically a trespasser blackmailing us with information, I’m as attached to him as you are.”

“Mhm.” He’s not buying it, Genji knows it, but he lets it pass as they have more important things to discuss. “Well you’ll be happy to know Oni’s team came back successful.”

“Oh?”

Hanzo taps on the table between them, making it light up. He puts a small black rectangle on the top and the white rotating circle surfs across the glass surface to read it, spilling its contents between the brothers. They’re pictures of the forest to the West on the outskirts of Hanamura, a decrepit little shack barely standing between the thin trees. The roof looks ready to cave in with the weight of the snow that’s built up on it, the door halfway off its hinges. The wooden exterior is rotting, the windows barred shut with the same type of wooden planks. There are a few bits of wood scattered around the entrance, as if someone had to tear it off to get inside. It looks abandoned and uninhabitable, but Hanzo says otherwise.

“He’s been squatting here it seems.”

“You’re joking.” Genji pulls a few pictures towards him, enlarges them with his fingers. “Did they find anything?”

Hanzo smiles, and it’s a rare one, a sharp one that Genji wears almost all the time. It makes him look like a proud cat having caught and already eaten his prey. “I don’t think our little tourist stole from Overwatch.”

Genji’s eyes don’t leave the pictures. “What makes you say that?”

“Oni’s team found several more datapads in that shack, all locked with handprint identification technology. We would’ve brought them back but when they attempted moving them outside a thirty foot radius they began to self delete. Thankfully they only lost two, but they couldn’t find the source that was causing the disruption,” at that, Hanzo frowns, but he brightens a little as he begins again, “And guess why we can’t get into McCree’s present he left for us?”

“It’s handprint I.D. only?” Genji slowly turns his attention up to his brother again and watches as he nods. “He could’ve reprogrammed them to read his print.”

Hanzo scoffs. “If it were that easy, we would’ve done it by now.”

“So you’re telling me he was with Overwatch?” He laughs sharply, leaning back in his chair.

“We won’t know until we get into those datapads,” he removes the rectangle from the surface of the desk and the white circle fades away, the pictures disappearing with it. “But it’s a possibility.”

“What would it matter? It isn’t like Overwatch is around anymore, and even if they were the Petra’s Act is still in effect. Besides, he seems a little gaudy to be a spy -- do _not_ mention my hair,” Genji cuts him off at the beginnings of a small grin forming on Hanzo’s face. “You know what I mean.”

“I understand and I’ve taken that all into account, little brother. It isn’t a matter of whether or not he was or wasn’t with Overwatch, it’s a matter on what else is on the datapads he’s hiding. I need you to do a bit of recon.”

“Ohh, my favorite.” Genji leans forward now, intrigued.

The other brings the datapad McCree had given them and sets it on the table, motioning carefully to it. “We put a thin DNA strip across the surface. When he unlocks the rest of what’s on here, we’ll make a copy of his handprint for you. I want you to go to his hideout, open the datapads, and if you find anything worthwhile make a copy and bring it back.”

“Easy,” Genji grins, hands eagerly slapping the edge of the table.

It is, by definition, an easy task. He’s been doing recon missions since he was sixteen to help their empire grow. Coming into power meant having enemies, and if you weren’t a friend of the Shimadas you were most certainly an enemy. Blackmail is an easy thing to come by, and McCree has proven that not even the Shimada Clan is above it, and when Genji wasn’t training to become the hunter he is today he was out helping in different ways. Recon for him is as easy as breathing, so why he’s hesitating outside of room double-o three in the medical ward he’ll never admit.

Hanzo, as always, reads him like a book. He’s attached to Jesse McCree, resident werewolf and mystery man. That isn’t to say he trusts him, not fully just as he’s sure McCree doesn’t completely trust him either -- if he did, he might feel entitled to being offended -- but he likes him the same way he likes some of their business partners. Tolerable, but dangerous. He’s spent a whole week with him, learned about him through his little nuances and ticks, slip ups in their conversations. Genji’s done the same, more purposeful than McCree, in an effort to get him to relax and trust him further. It worked, he thinks, to a degree, but they still dance around a thin line, feeling out where to push and when. Genji’s better at reading people, McCree seems tactless in his observations and lets his curiosity carry him, but he’s probably to blame for that talking about his father the way he did. His father, who coddled his soft soul instead of snuffing it out the way the Elders had wanted him to. There are days where he’s thankful for it, and days where he isn’t. Today, he thinks, he might not be so thankful.

Holding the datapad in a vice, white-knuckled grip Genji takes a deep breath and enters McCree’s room.

“Mornin’ Genji!” McCree greets him from behind the nurse, more chipper than he’s ever been in the morning. “You missed all the fun.”

Genji chuckles warmly, spotting the glint and gleam of the brand new prosthetic attached to his left arm. The nurse is fussing over him, asking him if anything feels uncomfortable, pinching, to move his fingers, wrist, arm in particular motions.

“Aw, I am sure there is more fun to be had now that you have your left arm back,” he winks, moving to the bed where the other’s sitting, legs hanging over the side as he does as the nurse asks. “How does it feel?”

“Fan-fuckin’-tastic,” McCree’s grinning from ear to ear, marvelling at his arm. “I mean, it’s a little weird feeling at first, but shit it’s better than no arm.”

Genji hums, tapping the nurse on her shoulder, telling her she’s dismissed. She bows to both him and McCree before leaving, smiling and waving a bit at the latter as he waves back with his left hand.

“I assume there were no issues then?”

“Nope, fits like a glove.” McCree stretches out his arms over his head, nods towards the datapad in Genji’s hand. “Guess it’s time for me to keep up my end of the deal, huh?”

“If you want to enjoy your arm for more than the several minutes you have had it, yes,” he teases, though they both know there’s a seriousness to it.

“Alright, give it here,” he holds out his hand and Genji hands it over. “Now turn around.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Can’t have you lookin’ at my password, turn around.”

And Genji rolls his eyes to keep up the facade of it all, turning around knowing full well the password is his handprint. It doesn’t take long, he can hear a few nondescript noises and then a promising _beep_ before McCree’s tugging on the hem of his coat.

“All yours.”

“Thanks,” he grins, taking the datapad back and scanning through it. Every greyed out folder that sported a small lock icon on it is no more and is replaced with fully colored manilla folder icons ripe for the picking.

“No, thank you,” McCree repeats, this time a little more seriously. “I mean it. You didn’t have to do all this.”

“Well, we _did_ if we wanted solid information.”

“Well, you _coulda_ just let your pride run rampant and told me to fuck off.” He fires back, offering Genji a lopsided grin.

“You mistake me for my brother.” And it’s only half true; Genji has a tendency to let his pride get the best of him too. “I’m hurt.”

“No you aren’t,” McCree huffs, pulling his attention over to his arm again.

It’s plainer than Hanzo’s prosthetics, though his looked just as plain when they first arrived. Over the years, he’s gotten them redone, sometimes for more applicable purposes such as the silver talons that mimic that of their usual footwear, others for purely aesthetic purposes. The palm and pads of his fingers have a different texture than the rest, a soft silicone that McCree keeps pressing against. Genji reaches over with his free hand and tickles a finger across his palm.

“Do you feel that?”

“Yeah it’s… it’s weird. A good weird. It’s got a nice grip too.”

“Good!” Genji grins and brings his hand to his coat pocket, fishing around for a small unopened box. “Then you will be able to take these.”

He takes out a brand new case of cigarillos, favorite brand and everything and Genji’s pretty sure he’s never seen McCree look more like a kid at Christmas. A new arm _and_ a new box of smokes.

“Shit, it ain’t even my birthday neither,” he looks up and smiles wider than before, taking the box gingerly and shaking it. “Can I take ‘em for a spin?”

“Away from here, yes. I need to drop this off,” he waves the datapad in the air. “You can smoke on the way.”

“Yeah, I hear you. When do y’all wanna go over the info that’s in there?” McCree asks as he’s opening the box.

“Tomorrow. Hanzo has prior engagements,” a lie, though a white one. He’s going over work details, something that can be done quickly and even postponed what with how important this is. But they need time to scheme, for the false hand print to be made and wired, so tomorrow. It’s risky, but he’s been in worse spots or at least Genji likes to think he has. “And the doctor wants to make sure everything is working correctly with your arm.”

“I promise, it’s all fine and dandy.” He waves a cigarillo in between his fingers.

“What’s the matter, tired of hanging around with me?” Genji puts up a pout, hardly though as his smirk seeps through. “And after all the trouble I went through to get your cigarillos too.”

“Was it, though?” McCree quirks an eyebrow at him and when Genji shrugs, he laughs. “Yeah, didn’t think so. I’ll be honest, I’m gonna miss that cheeky little face of yours.”

“And my pretty eyes?” He bats them for emphasis. McCree makes a noncommittal noise and Genji playfully hits him in the arm. “Ungrateful!”

The man -- beast, he has to remind himself of that now -- chuckles warmly, tucking the cigarillos between his lips as he gets up off the edge of the bed. “Downright cruel, I know.” He pats himself down, pocketing the new box of cigarillos and wonders if Genji finished off the old one. “Wish I met more hunters with eyes like yours.”

“No you don’t,” Genji laughs, sharply and he wonders if McCree will miss that too. “You would be dead.”

“Would I?” And McCree looks genuinely questionable. Genji can’t seem to argue either, as he’s standing in front of him alive and well. If he were a crueler sort he’d have killed him the second the datapad was unlocked, scavenge the prosthetic and make use of it else where, sell it. McCree gets right up in his space and the tables are flipped, the back of a warm, human -- beast -- hand settling on the center of his chest. “Dunno who to thank for meetin’ someone as merciful and kind as you, but I _am_ grateful. More than you know.”

Genji, for once, is speechless and does nothing but stare up, expression fighting for the schooling Hanzo took to much better than he did. The hand is what throws him off as he’s usually the one who initiates the touch, the quiet whisper of his fingertips across broad shoulders but instead it’s McCree’s hand patting the center of his chest and lingering just a little too long, body close enough to tower over him.

“Do not get used to it,” Genji tilts his head, not backing down from the close proximity. “You will be hard pressed to find someone like me.”

McCree grins, humming before saying, “Don’t I know it,” and walking towards the door. “C’mon, I’m itchin’ for these puppies.”

The vice grip is back on the datapad, careful as to not disturb the main face where McCree’s hand print remains unsmudged. It takes Genji a moment to reconnect and follow, blinking out of his no doubt dazed expression. He won’t admit it, but he’ll miss Jesse McCree, man or beast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so unbelievably late and I'm sorry! I had a lot of unrelated work I had to get through in October that ate up my free time. Hopefully I can get back on track with updating every two weeks and not every four weeks.
> 
> A HUGE thank you to everyone's patience/comments/kudos ❤ feel free to hit me up on madamerioulette@tumblr


	4. The Other Shoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wants McCree to stay this weirdly dressed man with a honeyed accent and an affinity towards the full moon and wolves, a man of seemingly neutral affiliation with a good sense of cigars and even better sense of humor, a beast with kind eyes and a soft soul just like his.

The snowfall slows him down considerably, the icy wind nipping ceaselessly at his exposed flesh and cutting through his stark black uniform. The tree branches are lined with ice, making travel above ground a dangerous and even slower journey, so halfway through he opts to skip across the thickening layer of snow on the ground. It almost doesn’t matter if footprints are left behind, they’ll be covered shortly thereafter, but his scent will linger longer and that’s what worries him. There’s no time for a careful trek amongst the trees though, they’re on a time crunch. He’s thankful he stubbornly declined Hanzo’s suggestion for a couple escorts to trail behind him; they’d slow him down further.

Hanzo is, instead, entertaining McCree as both a formality and a distraction. He was awake in his usual graceful fashion, waiting for Genji to ready himself only to subtly mother hen him all the way to the front gates. He’s a control freak, they both are although Genji admittedly is less-so, and whatever Hanzo can’t control makes him stress. McCree is a wildcard that he has no control over, this situation as a whole since the very moment he met him has been a slow building mess he’s sure and he says it three times to Genji so he’s definitely sure. They go over the plan once, twice, and almost a third time before the younger of the two makes a comment about Hanzo getting premature grey hairs again, that he’ll be fine it’s just a recon mission, nothing new and nothing dangerous. He knows it’s the unknown that bothers him, but the worst that’s ever happened is Genji coming home a little bruised around the cheek and ribs, grinning wildly through a busted lip because there’s a part of him that revels in a good fight now and again. Not that Genji is jumping at the prospect of hand to hand combat with McCree, but if all goes as planned they’ll make out like bandits.

Hanzo will let him wake on his own, take him to the meeting room after they indulge in a meal, and he’ll do his best to question every little thing in the datapad. When McCree leaves, he’ll radio Genji to start heading back, though he doesn’t think it’ll take him long to get what they need. That's the plan, plain and simple and easy.

It’s nearing dawn by the time Genji comes across it between the thin tree lines and blanket of falling snow, the rickety little shack in the middle of nowhere that has seemingly resigned to being buried. He makes fast work of shoveling the entrance free with his arms, ignoring the violent shiver running down his spine. Of all the times it had to snow this heavily, it had to be the morning of his recon mission to Jesse McCree’s dumpy hideout. It couldn’t have been an exquisitely misplaced suite further into the city with central heating and a door without rusted hinges, or even in an abandoned complex on the trashier side of town. No, at nearly five-thirty in the morning Genji is sifting through ice and snow and a goddamn stubborn door in the middle of the forest West of their home during a heavy snowfall in the deadass of winter. He’s a little grumpy about it, just a little, because recon usually entails a higher clientele than renegade werewolf.

Probably spent all his money on those top tier brand of cigarillos, he thinks.

With a bit of muscle, Genji manages to slide the door open enough for him to shimmy through and close it easier than it had opened. The inside of the shack isn’t much better. It’s stuffy, for one, the air thick and musky, and chilly what with most of it encased in a blanket of snow. The roof is being held aloft with makeshift beams that look just as rotted as the rest of the place and he’s careful not to touch them as he walks past, fearful that even the slightest touch will cause the roof to collapse. With the beams in place, the overall space of the area is cramped. It’s one rectangular room with a couple bare shelves and empty cabinets on the walls, a closet with the door panels crushed inward, a lopsided low table eats up most of the floor that he has to awkwardly walk around, and in the corner is a sorry excuse for a bed, just a mattress with a few tattered blankets. Genji almost feels guilty, for what he isn’t sure, but it’s no wonder McCree acted like he was in paradise despite his disposition. He toes at a few things on the floor, pieces of junk and wooden bits as he quietly and quickly searches for the items Oni had reported back with. They said they’d found the items shoved inside the closet, put it back just in case anyone else came across the shack and wanted to ransack it -- for whatever reason anyone would want to go and do that -- so Genji pokes his head between the broken slats and finds a pile of something covered in some torn blankets. Carefully, he reaches in and pulls the sheets off to find a battered travel bag, zipped shut.

“Jackpot,” he grins and snatches it up.

Traps had been reported and diffused upon Oni and their team’s arrival, so Genji helps himself to the bag without worry, setting it down on the table and watching as it leans painfully to one side. Situating himself on the floor, he unzips the bag and, as reported, there sits a stash of datapads lined up in individual padded slots inside. Two of them look unresponsive and Genji thanks any unseen entity that it was only two that began to self delete their files and fry their cores. There are only six left, unmarked but responsive as he touches the first one and the front lights up. Just as Hanzo said, it’s locked with a handprint scanner flashing softly and idly.

There is a part of Genji that hopes his brother’s suspicions are false as he digs through his pockets to procure a black, plastic box. It’s no bigger than his palm and when he opens it there are five individual slots each holding a small white circle. As he attaches one to each finger on his right hand, his hesitation grows. Best case scenario the handprint doesn’t work and McCree’s in the clear, he really is just a thief -- albeit a damn good one with an even better hacker on his side. Another good scenario, they’re just a bunch of useless files, redacted or otherwise unrelated to anything having to do with Overwatch. That one is more unlikely, no one puts a handprint I.D. scanner on a datapad full of family photos. Worst case scenario, Genji thinks as he activates the sensors on his fingertips to create a hard light render of McCree’s handprint, is Hanzo was right.

Genji places his hand on the surface of the datapad and it scans the hard light construct for a few long seconds that seem to stretch an eternity. He doesn’t know why he wants this to absolve McCree of anything problematic -- and that’s a lie, he knows exactly why and as per usual has a hard time admitting to it. He wants McCree to stay this weirdly dressed man with a honeyed accent and an affinity towards the full moon and wolves, a man of seemingly neutral affiliation with a good sense of cigars and even better sense of humor, a beast with kind eyes and a soft soul just like his.

The datapad dings.

“ _Welcome back, Agent Jesse McCree_.” A light female voice calls out from the datapad. Genji waits for something more, watches the big round Overwatch symbol rotate a few times on screen before loading up files amongst files of folders. It’s quiet for a moment more before he lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding and gets to work sifting through the data.

The first pad is full of miscellaneous Overwatch information, parts of which have been unsurprisingly redacted. Under a folder named _Agents_ , Genji finds nothing but file after file of completely redacted sheets of what he can only assume used to be information on those working under Overwatch. Useless, next. He looks through an unnamed folder with pictures of various Overwatch events. It seems the more public photos are clean of blemishes, while the others he’s never seen before have the faces of most everyone blacked out. Somewhat useful, and Genji goes digging through his pockets again, this time for a small rectangle similar to the one Oni brought back to Hanzo. He sticks it to the surface of the datapad in the corner and drags a copy of that folder over to it. Ultimately, it’s the most useful thing on this one and Genji moves onto the next.

The next two are redacted to hell and he, again, only manages to salvage a couple folders at a time. This is all seeming like a wild goose chase in his opinion, they aren’t even harvesting any good information on a dead organization, and while he can -- and will -- definitely complain about wasting his time and freezing his perky little ass off for seemingly nothing, he can’t complain about how disconnected it is from McCree. The recorded voice does refer to him as Agent, but Genji thinks it might just be a programming issue. Hacking into the datapads to acknowledge his print might make him an agent by proxy. And maybe stroke an ego or two.

The fourth datapad yields something different, peaks his interest to the point where he’s straightening up his formly slouched position against the back of the mattress. When the handprint I.D. scans the hard light render of McCree’s hand and the woman welcomes him back, a different symbol appears, one he’s never seen before. It starts out as a white line that rotates and grows into a muddy red circle. From the black center grows an emblem of an elongated white skull of sorts with red eyes and what looks to be a black silhouette of a sword down the middle. It spins for a time before it fades to a screen full of named folders and Genji doesn’t know where to begin. Unlike to that of Overwatch’s datapad, this one has a folder titled _Agents_ that is more useful than ever. As like the others it's full of folders, folders with names, names like _J. McCree_ . There are about fifteen more like it, but he’s transfixed on just the one. Genji’s finger hovers over it a tick, hesitation gripping him like white fire before his hand moves forward and taps. It’s full of video files and there’s a mixed sensation of success and dread; it really is the jackpot. He’s on a time crunch and he really doesn’t have the luxury of looking through them all but his curiosity is burning. Genji doubles back, moves a copy of the _Agents_ folder over to the little black rectangle in the corner and dives back in while the files transfer. He taps greedily on the first video entitled _Interview_.

 

It’s an interrogation room, small and clean with a viciously bright fluorescent light brightening the metal interior. There’s no door from the angle where the video camera is placed, but it catches the one wall with the two-way mirror. What is in clear view is a short metal table equipped with a sturdy pair of handcuffs and a matching set of metal chairs, one of which is bolted to the floor and sporting ankle cuffs. That chair in particular is full of a scraggly teenager with barely any meat on his bones, clothes a ragged dirty mess of mismatched apparel. The jean jacket torn at the sleeves seems to be the only relatively nice thing he’s wearing; on the back there’s a flaming skull sewn into it with the words DEAD over the top and LOCK across the bottom of it. He doesn’t bother struggling against the chains at his wrists but he does sink into his chair like a petulant thing, a puffy busted lip jutting out to compliment the swollen black eye and bloody nose he’s sporting. It isn’t long before the sound of a sliding door opening and closing hits the microphone, accompanied by heavy footsteps. Another man comes into view and sits himself in the chair opposite the other.

Genji recognizes this man, the beast rather, in more ways than one. He remembers watching from behind the skirt of their nursemaid. Two men and a woman dressed in solid blue uniforms, coats that swept across their ankles and berets tilted just so on their heads. He remembers the one, the non-human, with the scruff of black feathers that shone almost purple in the high setting sun blossoming from his collar, the coat with shorter sleeves to accommodate the bristles of feathers up his forearm, the gloves worn to hide the talon-like fingers stretched long and spindly, no boots but sharp claws, eyes as black as night itself. That is the man that sits across from a young punk, that is the man who once walked through Shimada Castle, that is not a man but a harpy.

“You want to tell me what a kid like you was doing in a raid like that?” He asks, voice low and warm like he’s holding a casual conversation.

The kid doesn’t respond, but he does shift his weight so he’s sitting a little taller, a little prouder than he was earlier. Defiant. It’s quiet for a measured amount of time.

“How about your name?”

Nothing, and the silence continues for the same length.

“What about your friends who left you high and dry? You want to tell me their names?”

That gets a reaction.

“They didn’t leave me,” he mumbles and the audio barely picks it up.

“You’re going to have to speak up.”

“Fuck you.” And that’s clear as day.

It gets an amused scoff from the harpy. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

Another soft chuckle wafts through the room, this time causing the harpy to lift a hand to cover a growing smirk around his neatly trimmed beard. “How old are you _really_?”

“Twenty-fuckin’-five!”

The first twenty minutes of the video go nowhere fast, it’s a series of the harpy asking questions and either getting no response or a colorful swear or two. It’s more of an interrogation than an interview, but Genji gives it the time it needs for things to start finally making sense.

It’s the fourth time the harpy asks the other’s name, and by this time Genji knows that’s McCree, a young and frazzled thing with a thicker accent and thinner limbs. He’s without his hat, the serape, the thick beard, sporting shorter hair and clothes far worse for wear. There’s a shine in his eyes that never leaves, the silver melting and mixing with the brown of his iris, reflecting off something else, something outside the light above them humming quietly to fill the silence. It’s hard to recognize him, so different from the man he left this morning, with both arms intact and a spirit in him that burns like a molten heat.

“What is your name? You can call me Gabriel,” he offers, leaning over the table with his talons crossed over at the wrists. When he gets a hesitant silence from the other, he continues, “You have the know I don’t work for the government, kid. They don’t bring people like _us_ into a world like that.”

That seems to get his attention, but he still tilts his chin up in a last ditch effort of defiant retaliation when he says, “Jesse McCree,” through his bruised lips.

“And how old are you?” He holds up a long finger. “Don’t bullshit me.”

It takes another second before he answers, begrudgingly, “Sixteen.”

“There we go.”

They go on like this for a little while, and as long as Gabriel keeps on the topic of McCree he seems to be pliant enough to give him short answers about himself. He’s been caught, there’s no real reason for him to save himself, but as soon as the topic switches back to these so-called friends of his, McCree is all attack dog, spitting fire at Gabriel like he put a brand of silver to his leg.

“They aren’t coming back for you,” he says calmly, knowingly. “They left you.”

“Fuck you!” His voice cracks but he keeps on strong, leaning over the table as far as the ankle cuffs will let him. “You don’t know shit! We’re a pack, they ain’t gonna leave me here to rot! The Deadlock Pack’s gonna come in here and tear your ass to pieces once they figure out where I am. You can’t hold me here, I got my fuckin’ rights!”

“Actually, you don’t.” And Gabriel stands, tall and intimidating if it wasn’t for his even and calm tone of voice. “You’re wanted for several accounts of murder -- ”

“I didn’t kill nobody I didn’t have to!”

“ -- theft, weapon laundering, money laundering, kidnapping -- ”

“That’s a fuckin’ lie!”

“-- and the destruction of several public buildings. You’re being charged with these due to accountability, whether or not you did the acts yourself you are associated with the Deadlock Pack,” Gabriel walks around the table to sit himself between his chair and McCree’s. “You are, in the public justice system’s eye, a monster in both uses of the word. You don’t have any rights.”

McCree’s shaking in his chair, enough for the chains to rattle around his wrists and ankles. He’s glaring at Gabriel but with no real bite behind it because he knows he’s right, and Gabriel holds his gaze until McCree blinks and lowers his head to stare at the table. He gives him a moment to try and center himself, his breathing harsh and labored. After a while, Gabriel taps a claw onto the table to grab his attention.

“I can give you an out.”

“I don’t want your handouts.” But his words have already lost its fire, he’s being defiant for the sake of it now.

Gabriel laughs. “This is no handout, kid, it’s a choice. You can spend the rest of your years in an institution, a _cage_ , where you won’t see the light of the sun or moon ever again, where people will treat you like the animal they think you are, where you’ll die _alone_. Or,” and McCree makes a little motion forwards as if he’s hanging off the edge of every word he speaks. “You can work for me.”

“Fuck off! _Fuck you_ , that ain’t a choice!” And the fire reignites, a desperation hanging heavily in his voice that Genji is familiar with. He’s writhing against the chains, getting as close as he can to Gabriel on the table.

“I’ll give you time to think about it.” He’s up off the table and going for the door that’s out of frame and McCree is still barking at him, pulling on his restraints.

The video cuts off, goes black, and then it’s back again with a different timestamp and date in the corner but the same scene; same walls, same table and chairs, same sixteen-year-old kid and harpy sitting opposite one another. McCree looks tired, not broken but something akin to it, like his time in the interrogation room gave him time to actually think about the consequences. He isn’t looking up at Gabriel, who is sitting as perfectly calm as ever, wrists overlapped. What strikes Genji is his aura, there’s no holier than thou feeling despite his demeanor, if anything he’s trying to show they’re on equal footing.

They’re quiet, even Genji who is holding his breath as he stares at the datapad, the only source of light in the room. When McCree moves, the sound of the chains rattling is louder than it should be, startling. He readjusts himself in the chair, leaning back against the too straight back of it instead of hunched over the table, and tilts his chin up as if he’s still got ground to hold in the conversation they aren’t having.

“What the hell do you do anyway if you ain’t government?” He asks and there’s a hysterical edge to his voice. Genji can’t tell if he’s reaching a breaking point or coming down from one.

“Classified.”

“Bullshit!”

“I can’t tell you the specifics until I know what your decision is,” Gabriel says, just as conversationally as before as he gets up from his chair and starts over towards McCree. “But let’s look at what you _do_ know. You aren’t a dumb kid.”

He goes to stand as close as he can get to him without being directly parallel, leans his hip against the table and taps a talon on the surface.

“We knew where you were, we knew who to kill immediately, and those unknown factors,” he motions to McCree. “We brought in. You don’t know where you are, noone knows where you are, and as far as I’m concerned no one will no matter the choice you make.”

“Sounds like shifty government bullshit to me.” McCree sinks down in his chair.

“Okay, for the sake of this conversation, let’s say we are. Why am I wasting time with you? Why did I give you a choice?”

“Did you give the others a choice?” He looks hopeful, leaning forward just an inch or two. When Gabriel answers with a firm _no_ he sinks back down. “Why me?”

“The official reason I had to pitch to my… colleague,” the way he says it, _colleague_ , denotes an underlying hint of tension Genji can’t pinpoint. “You not only held your own for longer than anyone twice your age on that field, you accessed our weak points and played them to your advantage. You shot my right hand in the kneecap from the roof of a gas station a mile off with a goddamn six shooter that looks like you picked it up out of the garbage from the year twenty-twenty. You’re dangerous and you have potential to be great in the right hands.

“Personally, though. There’s a sixteen-year-old werewolf in my interrogation room and I don’t want to see him spend the rest of his life in a glorified penitentiary.”

McCree looks like he’s fighting between puffing his chest out proudly at the preening that just went on and keeping his defiant facade. There’s a look in his eye that makes him seem as if he’s really considering the deal though, and Genji doesn’t know if it was the ego stroking or something else. Maybe a combination, there has to be something behind the fact that there’s a monster in a nondescript uniform talking to him, making deals in a place like this. Their kind don’t have that kind of privilege.

“The Deadlock Pack doesn’t take good for nothing little shits.”

“Neither do we, and I promise you we’re better than them.”

McCree laughs like he doesn’t believe him, a bark of a sound that’s really only just for show.

“You ain’t ever going to live up to the pack,” and it sounds like he’s on his last string, pulled taut and straining. “Humor me, what’re you really offering?”

Gabriel is silent a moment, just stares at McCree with his eerily dark, reflective eyes. He’s debating with himself quietly over whether or not he wants to tell him the truth, and he must see something in McCree because he does.

“A second chance,” he answers quietly, voice warm but hardened as he continues. “But I’m not handing it to you, you need to work for it, I’m just here to show it to you. You’ll be working with people like me, like us, _for_ people like us, making the world safer and making sure nothing like the Omnic War happens again, but with us. I'm sure you've seen the protests, at least heard of them? I can see it happening all over again. And I know, you’re thinking what has this shitty world ever done for people like us?”

“A harpy _and_ a mind reader, would you lookit that.”

Gabriel huffs a short chuckle. “I’ll level with you, it’s damn near close to jackshit. But it’s allowed my line of work, and from that we can grow. One year’s worth of training, housing, food, and you get to be apart of my team, my family. In the end, it’s still your choice, and it _is_ a choice.”

McCree looks to be seriously weighing his options here, like he knows the Deadlock Pack might have a better chance finding him outside of a thrice locked cage in the middle of nowhere. In all honesty, it could be the other side of the offer is just a gilded cage, bigger, better amenities, but still a cage. There’s the unspoken third choice; death. There’s a chance they don’t even put him up for trial and they shoot him right in the back like the dog he is.

“All… alright,” he looks away from Gabriel, like he’s embarrassed he conceded but what choice did he have? For a moment, though, he lifts his head, high and mighty with as much dignity as he can muster as if he wants to say something more, spit one last ounce of fire at the harpy but he doesn’t, it’s just a small growl in the back of his throat, frustrated and defeated. “Alright. I’ll work for you.”

 

The screen goes black again and the video ends, leaving Genji in the dark. The file entitled _Agents_ hasn’t finished copying over to the portable drive yet and he’s feeling greedy. There’s a lot to take in with that one video but he isn’t sure if it’s useful. If anything, it proves that there’s more to McCree than he originally thought. The name Deadlock Pack rings a few quiet bells, mostly on the business side of things. A couple people had come to them in hopes that they would put an end to them, because despite their monstrous nature they were actually pretty savvy in the ways of weapons laundering and acted as a competition to some even in Japan who had clients outside the country. They didn’t deal with contracts outside their region, so they never had the pleasure of meeting, but Genji remembers several years later that they all but disappeared.

Hanzo hasn’t called in yet to warn him if McCree’s left or not, so he indulges a little further into the rabbit hole. There’s a folder named _Training_ next to the video he just finished watching and he clicks on it, opening up rows upon rows of videos. Genji’s finger doesn’t hesitate this time as he taps the first one on the list.

 

There are three camera angles to choose from, one large main view and two smaller feeds at the bottom to click on should the events in range change. All three show a training room, an open wide space with tall ceilings and a matte floor covered in different exercise areas. There aren’t any windows, but the timestamp in the upper corner says that it’s early in the morning, way too early to be doing drills. Only one area is lit up far in the back where an indoor obstacle course sits. From the current angle, all Genji can see are two silhouettes, one unmoving and the other scurrying about, and he watches them with the footage sped up as the timestamp reads just over two hours. He pauses as he gets nearer towards the end, and fixes the angle so that the camera is closer to the obstacle course when something other than quiet training happens.

“C’mon McCree, _hustle_!”

The harpy from the interview video, Gabriel, stands at the sidelines with his arms crossed, sporting a short-sleeved black thermal, a matching black beanie and sweatpants, a much different outlook than before, more casual but somehow also more intimidating. It takes a moment for Genji to spot McCree, who comes up from the other side of a tall wall nearly gasping.

“You… you fuckin’ try your goddamn fuckin’ -- Jesus Mary and _Joseph_ goddamnit!” He’s swearing up a storm, voice echoing in the emptiness of the room as he scrambles up the side of the wall to take a minute just to breath. Or rather, he would take that minute to breath if he weren’t still flinging curses in Gabriel’s direction.

And Gabriel seems completely unphased to the point where there’s the telltale sign of an amused smirk forming on his lips.

“Come on down, McCree.” He says between the kid’s heaving breathes and breathless shouts. “You’ve had enough.”

“I had enough two fuckin’ hours ago!” There’s a pregnant pause for another gulp of air before he adds, seethingly, “ _Sir_.”

“I told you you were going to have to work for this,” Gabriel says, eyeing the other like a hawk. “And you have a lot of work ahead of you.”

McCree grumbles something low enough that the only thing the camera picks up is a rough growl as he makes his way down the other side of the scaling wall. Genji takes notice to the fact that there are no grips on it, nothing jutting outward to help grab and he wonders if it’s like that on the other side too. Instead he can just barely see McCree’s hands, claws rather, sticking into the wood for purchase as he climbs.

“Maybe,” he says, just as breathless as before as his feet finally touch the ground. “I should’ve asked what the hell I was getting into before I agreed to this bullshit.”

“You need to learn control,” Gabriel explains, walking over to McCree as he fishes for something in his sweatpants pocket. “You can’t just shift into a werewolf in the middle of a mission to climb or to run. Blackwatch is a discreet organization.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you just scream discreet,” he quips, bending over to cough dryly. His arms up to his elbows have shifted, with patches of fur riding up the rest of his upper arm only to disappear in the too-big T-shirt he’s wearing. The claws start to recede into his fingernails, the fur melting off in droves as he shifts them back to his gangly human form. He’s visibly shaking, as if it took a lot for him to do just that and puts one arm up on the climbing wall to keep his balance.

“Drink this,” Gabriel pulls a water bottle from the depths of his pockets, the liquid somewhat milky in color. “All of it, and then go grab yourself a ration before heading off to bed.”

“But we already had supper,” McCree huffs, grabbing the bottle from him. He doesn’t even take a second look at it, as if he’s been offered this before and gone through the motions of _that’s not water_.

“Yeah, six hours ago.” The other replies, his voice holding something akin to curiosity, but he doesn’t ask, only tilts his head just so to one side. “Grab another, or you’re going to be useless during morning drills.”

There’s something in McCree’s eyes, something that melts into the constant silver shine to them that, if Genji had to guess, looks like some form of suspicion. He quiets whatever he was going to say and opts to chug the liquid instead, gagging on it a little as he takes in too much.

The video ends abruptly, as if whoever was editing it only wanted that footage and nothing else.

 

Genji doesn’t waste time, he sets to watching the next, and the one after that, and another. He’s engrossed in it, scrubbing through the longer videos, paying close attention to the short ones. Sixteen-year-old McCree is a menace, insubordinate and childish, a wild thing clinging to the last bit of civility that line the edges of his eyes. His clothes hang off of his skin and bones, and despite his disposition he still lashes out every chance he gets only to be put back in his place. There’s a pattern that he catches, the way Gabriel treats McCree outside of everyone else, something paternal if he had to take a guess. McCree doesn’t buy into it, he’s suspicious and careless and so stubbornly stuck on the fact that the Deadlock Pack will come back for him, find him somehow in this undisclosed location and rescue him. Gabriel keeps trying anyway and does his best to teach him control over his body, control over his emotions, points out his weaknesses and every so often compliments his strengths. He doesn’t go easy on McCree, he doesn’t go easy on anyone, but he doesn’t seem to want to give up on any of the recruits, McCree especially.

Every so often another man comes to visit, accompanied by a woman and Genji recognizes them both as the other two people who used to come by Shimada Castle. They wear the Overwatch symbol proudly on their casual clothes and he’s beginning to wonder if Overwatch and Blackwatch are two very different things. It’s obvious they work together in some fashion, Gabriel speaks familiarly with them and they wouldn’t have come together as a trio to his home if they didn’t all have a common goal. The only difference is that as far as Genji can tell, the blonde man and the woman with the long dark hair are human.

 

It’s another late night, early morning one on one training session. McCree is slowly but surely beginning to fill out his workout clothes, the shirt doesn’t hang as much as it used to in the earlier vids and the cargo pants don’t slip off his hips as much. His attitude hasn’t changed though, he still barks a harsh remark here and there towards Gabriel who either snaps back at him tenfold or just takes it with an amused grin, depending. There’s improvement in his form, he isn’t wheezing after running for a while, isn’t shaking when he transforms a little at a time. He knows the obstacle course like the back of his hand now, but there’s no spirit in the way he moves as if he’s just running through the motions to get it over with. Gabriel doesn’t seem happy about it either, and next to him is Jack Morrison, the blonde Commander though he is without his Captain Ana Amari tonight. He looks equally displeased and puts a hand on the other’s bicep, pulls him away from the current view of the camera and Genji switches to get a better angle.

“He's improving.” It's Gabriel who speaks first, defending against whatever Jack is ramping up to say.

It successfully derails him, causes him to pause and take another breath. “Yes, he is,” he starts slowly. “But not enough.”

“It's been two months, you gave me a year with him.”

“I did and I don't know why, to be honest. I gave you a criminal,” he lowers his voice and the audio barely picks it up.

“You gave me a sixteen-year-old kid to shape up into something besides a criminal, _Jack_ ,” Gabriel frowns. “He's a shit load better than what he used to be.”

“He has no respect for you or any of his superiors, and I heard about that fight with O’Malley. He's reckless, has no sense of teamwork, you can't put him in the field he's no good.”

The movement on the obstacle course has stopped.

“It's been two months.” Gabriel repeats, a little gruffer as he crowds the other.

Jack doesn't let up. “You think you can train out his survival instincts? When push comes to shove, he'll remember those flight or fight instincts. He won't be any better than --”

He catches himself but by the look on Gabriel’s face he can finish the sentence himself. They're quiet until Jack looks ready to backpedal, but neither get a word out.

“Go ahead, say it.” McCree, who had stopped running circles on the course a while ago, is standing at the front of it. “I ain't never gonna be no better than a monster.”

The silence that envelops them is wholly uncomfortable. They turn to stare at him, Gabriel looking as if he’s trying to stop this before it starts and Jack paling as he straightens up a little.

“That isn’t --”

“It was, so just fuckin’ say it!”

“ _McCree_!” Gabriel warns, stepping a little ways between them. They’re a good couple yards away from each other, but like he said, he’s improving. And despite Jack not being his commander per say, he’s still his superior.

And there’s a moment that flickers by where McCree listens, and as far as Genji’s concerned that’s the first he’s seen throughout the tapes, but it’s just a second, if even that, before his hackles raise.

“I could _hear_ you, you know, I mean for all that talk ‘bout me bein’ a good for nothin’ criminal monster I’d think you’d’a had enough sense to know I can hear a fuckin’ fly across the room let alone your whisperin’s,” he takes a step forward and that in turn seems to make Gabriel bristle. “ _Say it_ , I ain’t no better than a monster, ain’t never gonna be no better than what the Deadlock Pack raised me to be!”

There’s a subtle crack in his voice, but Gabriel seems to pick it up as his stance relaxes, the feathers around his collar wilting.

“McCree, stand down,” the anger is still there, the disrespect of a commanding officer regardless of who works for where is still disrespectful, but the fire that had been burning in his chest is gone. “Jack,” he half turns to him, as if he doesn’t want to give McCree his back quite yet. “Leave.”

There’s a second or two where no one moves or speaks, and then Jack seems to understand. McCree follows him out with his eyes and only when the sound of the doors closing off camera echo through the room does his concentration fall back on Gabriel. They sit in a thick fog of silence again for a time before the Commander speaks up.

“Do you hate me?”

He’s using the same voice he used back in the interview video, casual and friendly. A voice he seems to use rarely and exclusively for McCree when no one else is around.

“Yes,” McCree hisses.

“Why?”

“Because you took me from my pack!” The words ring hollow with empty anger, though his body is tense, practically shaking.

“Do you want to go back?”

There’s a blink and you’ll miss it moment, so much so that Genji has to rewind to see it again. The silver flashing obscurely in his eyes dies immediately at the question, flaring back up like a defense mechanism. McCree doesn’t answer as quickly as he had before and Gabriel, if anything, is patient.

“S’where I belong,” and he finally breaks eye contact, opting to stare at the floor as if that, too, had done him some kind of wrong.

“But do you want to go back?” Gabriel asks again, unwavering.

The anger rises again, hollow like before, and McCree bristles. “I see what you’re doin’, I ain’t fuckin’ stupid! S’a trick question! Tryin’ to butter me up with food n’a bed n’a ‘future’ like I can be somethin’, like I can be bought with rations n’fuckin’ promises.

“And what does it matter what my answer is anyway? I _can’t_ go back ‘cause I’m stuck _here_ and if I ain’t here I’m in fuckin’ _prison_ ! You know that, n’you know what else I know you fuckin’ know -- the answer to your own goddamn question. I _don’t_ wanna go back, fightin’ for scraps, runnin’ cold nights, gettin’ chased outta cities like a bunch’a filthy mongrels, but that’s what I’m good at! I was damn good at it, worked my ass off for ‘em runnin’ shit across borders and keepin’ a low profile and knowin’ my place and they didn’t --”

McCree stops. He stops talking, the words caught ungracefully in his throat threatening to choke him. The silver glare in his eyes stop, melting away like ice, and is instead replaced by a different shine, something wet and so foreign that McCree stops breathing. Something clicks in him like a switch. A low, watery whine leaves him, his face twisting in grief.

“They didn’t come back for me.”

He starts to shake again, pent up anger and denial and something else, something deeper that bleeds open and fresh.

“They said they'd have our backs at the warehouse if the shit went and hit the fan, but they _didn't_ ! They _promised_ and --” A sob rips from him despite his best efforts. “ -- and they _left_ me!”

McCree takes a sharp intake of breath like he's going to say more or scream into the mostly empty training room until his voice leaves him, but there are arms, soft and feathery, enveloping him around his shoulders and bringing him in. Whatever is on the tip of his tongue melts away into another low pitched whine that's muffled in Gabriel’s chest.

 

Genji’s finger hovers over the pause button, bottom lip sucked in as he gnaws on it senselessly. There's something incredibly personal and open about this, about him watching it. Up until this point he's been able to separate himself from McCree, their weird and tentative friendship -- if he can call it that -- because he found something incriminating. At least, he had hoped it to be, but then there in between the useless videos of him training until he's drenched in sweat and heaving are little gems like this, open windows to McCree’s life that aren't meant for him. He feels guilty, but he hasn't pushed forward to pause the video and go back to something less personal. The sudden sound of Gabriel’s voice shakes him from his revery and he pulls his hand back to his chest.

 

“We don't leave our people behind,” his voice is quiet, warm, a stark contrast to the abrupt hiccup of sobs and whines that escape McCree. “That's not the kind of team I put together, that's not the type of Commander I am. We look out for one another; we win it's with a group effort, we fuck up we all fuck up. We're a family, a ragtag bunch but we're better than any pack the Deadlock wants to parade themselves for.”

There's another round of silence, save for the noises McCree lets out occasionally as he buries his face further into Gabriel’s chest. He's still taut like a bowstring, hesitation mixed in with the rest of his melting pot of emotions, but when he does finally lift his face away there's no more anger for Gabriel. His face is shiny and damp, red and blotchy in the cheeks, puffy around his eyes. He’s still hiccuping a little despite his greater effort not to as he angrily wipes away the tears smeared across his face. The fact that Gabriel still has him around the shoulders doesn’t seem to phase him, as if he knows it’s needed but taking direct notice would show a weakness he’s not willing to quite yet.

“N-No bullshit,” McCree speaks up finally, the shaking of his body now reaching his voice.

Gabriel snorts softly. “I can't promise no bullshit from my superiors, but you'll get none from me.”

There's another small hiccup before he leans in again, forehead resting on his chest. “Okay…” he murmurs, trailing off as he talks low enough that the audio doesn't pick up.

The other, too, says something into McCree’s mused hair low enough that Genji can't hear it, can't read the lips as they're both obscured. Whatever it is, it gets a short, snorty laugh out of him as he finally pushes Gabriel away. There's space between them now, Gabriel's arms no longer around his shoulders but his hands now rest on McCree’s forearms, giving him a simultaneous hearty pat on both sides.

“Okay?” He asks.

“Yeah….” Something else hangs on his lips, mouth open like he's about to say it. He doesn't and closes his mouth to swallow it down hard, opting for a hesitant, “Yes’sir.”

It sounds unnatural on his tongue and he pinches his face a bit, but Gabriel only chuckles again, pats him one more time on the shoulders and finally lets him go.

“Drink up,” he says, fishing a water bottle from his sweats, tossing it to McCree. “Grab another ration before bed. You got training at oh six hundred.”

The video ends as McCree lets out a huffy groan at the prospect.

 

Genji leaves the _Training_ folder, he leaves the _J. McCree_ folder, he leaves the _Agents_ folder, and he almost puts the datapad on the table to leave it too, but he stops. He thinks about _why_ he wants to leave it, if it's personal or professional.

Professional, he decides quickly. There's nothing useful on it, just a bunch of recordings about people who don't exist anymore in an organization that doesn't exist anymore in a world that never knew they existed in the first place. What does it matter what McCree _used_ to do, there's nothing relevant to the now, the present. Hanzo wants something relevant, but then again he's never been known to pass up a good bit of dirt, relevant to the now or not.

Personal, he clicks his tongue at the thought. He likes McCree and there's a small part of him that hoped he wouldn't find anything but a bunch of stolen datapads. These videos make him vulnerable in the worst way, a stark contrast between sixteen-year-old scrappy McCree who looks like a kicked puppy wearing clothes that hang off malnourished bones, to McCree now with his foreign cigars that hang off his clothes and skin and that awful sense of fashion he obviously hadn't picked up in his teens, a calm civility to him even in the face of a hunter or two or their home that surely smells of death. A lot has happened between what's on this datapad and now, and it's personal. It's personal when Genji thinks about ripping the data stick off the pad and deleting what it's already eaten up.

It's somewhere in between professional and personal when Genji brings the _Agents_ folder back up, dives into _J. McCree_ and rifles through the many other folders inside. He taps on _Medical_ , to which he's prompted with another I.D. scanner that reads his fake hand and lets him in with a quiet chime and a green light. Most of it are PDFs of written exams, none of which are surprisingly redacted but it almost doesn't matter. The doctor had chicken scratch for handwriting, that's for sure. Many of them are labeled for monthly physicals, check-ups, Genji tries to read through a few that are for after missions where McCree has gone for things like silver wounds and “twenty-five fractured bones” which is both impressive and questionable. A few near the end catch his attention, unnamed and, upon opening them, bits of it are redacted. They're weekly check-ups from what he can gather, interspersed relatively evenly between the monthly physicals, but for what he isn't sure. Important, maybe, if he can figure out what changed.

Genji leaves the medical files alone for now and searches elsewhere in McCree’s folder. There's a folder entitled _Reports_ , more videos, and his curiosity gets the best of him when he taps the first one.

 

McCree looks about seventeen, maybe eighteen, he's fuller than he was in his training videos but his face is still young, groomed without the mass of beard Genji’s used to seeing. There's a hellish cut along the right side of his head, hair matted into it, but it doesn't take away from the large, wide grin he has on smiling into the camera.

Behind him looks to be a small warehouse, wooden and parts of it looking like it has been torched and now only flickering embers remain. There's a lot of background noise, people hollering for medics or other officers, but McCree’s voice cuts just fine through the video.

“Hey Boss, mission report, double zero five four eight, dead done and gone,” he begins, the accent pulled back just a little. “None dead on our end, about a dozen wounded give or take a little, O’Malley’s dealing with it and told me to get the report out since we're a little overdue -- sorry _jefe_. Uh….” He pauses to look behind him. “Warehouse is sorta intact?”

As he says this, with almost comedic timing, the roof in view collapses inward sending ash and wood tumbling down in a ruckus. People wiz by him on the left and right as his grin widens.

“It's fine, don't worry none! If we can send like… I dunno, Winston’s pretty handy right? Some of their folks can spend a bit of time revamping it. They had some fire imps in with ‘em, nasty sons a bitches. That's the worst of it though.”

“ _McCree_ !” A woman’s voice shouts from over the radio. “ _You finished with the report yet? We need help clearing the goddamn ceiling._ ”

“Yes ma’am, just about. On my way,” he’s more formal with her than in the report, Genji notices. McCree turns his attention back to the video screen. “O’Malley’s callin’, see you Boss!”

 

It's a window into his later years with Blackwatch, how he grows and matures with each report. He's usually stuck with O’Malley it seems, Gabriel’s second in command, who isn't human either. She never quite shows her face on the videos for that long, not that Genji can really see it with her apparatus. Her uniform is different from the rest, almost like a wetsuit, and around the collar that goes up and around her neck is a nondescript metal device. On her head is a pair of high tech goggles that encase the majority of her head, a metal band to hold it in place and what seems to be a leather cap around her head. There's one video on an aircraft where O’Malley lingers a moment to add something to the report and Genji recognizes her as a siren; a rarity to see them above the sea for so long and he finally understands what the neck apparatus and goggles are for. She could easily pass as a human if it weren’t for the gills, he thinks, but they’ve fought sirens before, they don’t stay that way for very long. Her hair, cut short and military-esque, shimmers in the faulty light of the carrier, eyes bright and almost glowing as she gives McCree a knowing look when he tries to fit a joke into the report. He winks at her and she bares her teeth in a sarcastic smile, sharp and jagged in little razor rows.

In between the reports there are a few wildcard files, some of which have no audio, others are lacking in both the audio and visual. A couple are PDFs that are really only taking up space at this point as they’re completely and utterly redacted. One video file is entitled INTERROGATION 017, and out of curiosity, the source of reason for everything he's done up to this point, Genji taps on it, relieved that there is both audio and visuals to accompany it.

 

“You sure this is okay _jefe_?”

It’s McCree’s voice, off screen talking to someone who is equally out of frame. It’s a room similar to the one a sixteen-year-old McCree sat in, and for all Genji knows it’s probably the very same. The person sitting in the uncomfortable metal chair, wrists and ankles bound, is much older than McCree. He’s a skeezy looking fellow, hair greasy and mused, thin enough to show off the sizable gash on his skull though the blood’s been cleaned enough that the only thing left of the blood is a red film down the right side of his face. There’s a cockiness in his form, nothing desperate or wild, as he sits comfortably with his hands knitted together, feet kicked out under the table. He wears a jean jacket, Genji notices. On the back there’s a flaming skull sewn into it with the words DEAD over the top and LOCK across the bottom of it.

“If you don’t want to, you’re free to walk McCree,” Gabriel’s disembodied voice answers. “I can always call in O’Malley.”

“No,” is his quick reply, pausing a moment as to not seem overeager. “No, it’s just… I didn’t think the Strike Commander would’ve OK’d this.”

“He didn’t, and I don’t see why you should care. He’s not your boss, you’re not going to get in trouble.”

“No but you are,” he says haughtily. “And I care about that.”

“That’s not your job.” McCree lets out a little huff at that. “You let me worry about Morrison, you worry about you. I’ll ask you again, do you want to do this?”

There’s a moment of silence between them before McCree answers back, “Yes’sir, I do.”

They enter the room, Gabriel first with McCree trailing behind him. They’re wearing casual uniforms, nothing like the battle ready gear McCree was wearing in the previous reports, this looks more like the undergear; a dingy beige jacket with matching slacks and light armor padding at the legs. Gabriel has his usual beanie secured on, jacket sleeves pulled up to his elbows, and bootless as the light clacking of his talons click against the floor. McCree is sporting his cowboy hat, the very same he's been seen wearing even today, and a pair of jangly cowboy boots to match, complementing the heavy clicks his Commander’s steps. The man in the chair settles his gaze on Gabriel first and only gives McCree a precursory glance before giving the other his full attention.

“Why don't we just skip to the end where you throw me in jail for life, be a great heap of time saved between us ‘cause I ain't telling you jack shit.”

Gabriel chuckles low and not at all like the warm light-hearted laugh he's given McCree throughout the vids.

“That's not how this works,” he explains, stalking around the table. McCree is left on the opposing side, effectively sandwiching the prisoner between them. “I ask you a question, you give me an answer. That's the easy, time saving way of doing this.”

“Hard way’s a lot more painful,” McCree adds, rapping his knuckles on the table. “And _a lot_ longer.”

“Didn't know they allowed snot-nosed pups in the government,” the man spits, teeth barred. His sharp canines glisten a distasteful yellow in the light. “ _Back off_.”

There's a moment where the two stare each other down for a stretch of time, the prisoner doing his best to size up McCree from his bound position while the other keeps his cool. His hands shake a little, but otherwise he wears a nasty little grin on his face, his own canines shining brightly to compliment the flash of silver in his eyes.

“You're gonna wanna pay attention to the Commander.”

The prisoner turns his head to look and Gabriel is there to meet him with a fist. The sound of it connecting with his cheek is loud but he smirks through it has he leans back in the chair.

“There's your warning.”

They want answers about the Deadlock Pack, things McCree didn't know back when he first started training for Blackwatch. They don't get much out of him. Halfway through the interrogation he's sporting a broken hand with equally broken fingers, all misshapen and bent at awkward, terrible angles. His nose is bruised, bloodied, but otherwise unbroken, but the same can't be said for the handful of slimy teeth decorating the surface of the table, a thick string of saliva and blood drooling from the corner of his mouth. Beneath his clothes there's bound to be discoloration around his abdomen, a yellowing mix of ripe bruises. Gabriel doesn't pull his punches like he did the first, they're full brutal swings that knock the air clear out of him, but has yet to wipe the cheeky smirk from his face.

He's leaning back in his chair when he starts laughing, a breathy maniacal sound, with his head thrown back and staring at the ceiling with two swelling eyes.

“I was wonderin’ why you smelled so damn familiar,” he says this to McCree, flinching and seizing at the pain at his ribs as he leans towards him. He licks his cracked and busted lips, only spreading the spit and blood further in an unpleasant display. “You're that _mutt_ the Alpha brought in down by the border.”

McCree twitches just enough the garner attention from Gabriel, who switches his attention between their captive and his agent.

“Oh, you _gotta_ remember me!” His words slur, but he punctuates well enough to be understood. “You were mine the first six months, I taught you how to survive, you remember? Shit, it's been so long, thought you were dead n’ done! Who knew the pack _bitch_ would thrive, hah!”

There's a wildness growing in McCree’s eyes, it's plain as day on the recording and Gabriel has to see it too, is watching McCree like a hawk. He's stiff on the other side of the prisoner, of Gabriel, eyes bright and silver and reminiscent of his younger years. The prisoner’s pushing buttons, and Genji wonders why Gabriel doesn't stop it, he wonders if this is a test McCree chose.

“What're you doin’ in a crowd like this, hm? Think you can amount to more than what you were with us? We _made_ you, you ain't never gonna be better than that. You belong to us, always will.”

It's too fast and too slow all at once, but something in McCree snaps. He lunges at him, hat falling, expression twisted and gnarled as he snarls at him. McCree puts pressure on the chair, the metal restraints holding it down start to whine and bend. The cuffs on the table are taught, the short chain stretching as the pair of wrists in them pull. There's a sharp, sickening snap of a bone or three breaking as the hands slide out, the prisoner screaming as the chair goes tumbling to the floor, McCree bearing down on him.

“I ain't yours no more!” He shouts, bringing his clawed fist up. There's a loud connection of bones meeting, something in his jaw loosening when the other’s fist connects. “ _I ain't yours no more_!”

Gabriel’s there after the third punch, when the face of their captive is beginning to malform into something unrecognizable. There had been a stunned silence from him as McCree broke the chair, the man’s hands, and watched in awe before a female voice -- O’Malley from the vague sound of it over the static and the noise inside the room -- called him back to reality to get McCree off him before he killed their lead. He grabs his wrist in the air to keep a fourth, well-placed punch from connecting and hauls McCree up with some effort. He's squirming when he gets to his feet, fighting against Gabriel’s hold as he wraps his arms around the other’s middle and hauls him out of the room, all the while still yelling at the top of his lungs.

“McCree!” Gabriel shouts once their out of frame, over his agent’s breaking voice. “ _McCree_! Calm down!”

“I ain't theirs!” He's struggling, there's the sound of feet scuffling against the floor, the rustle of clothes against one another. “I ain't theirs, not ever again!”

“McCree.” Gabriel lowers his voice, low and barely audible against McCree’s frantic breaths and little strangled shouts. “Relax, _mijo_. Breath with me, deep breaths.”

For a time, the sound is uneven. It's a mix of Gabriel taking in slow, deep breaths, holding it for a tick and letting them out just as slow, a fight against McCree who is struggling to calm his panicked breathing, high and whiny as he tries to settle down. When the sounds of his struggling movement dies down and his breaths get easier, Gabriel begins to mutter to McCree in Spanish. Genji doesn't understand it, but it's soft and comforting, a warm accompaniment to the even, deep breaths they share. In for three, hold for one, out for five. In for three, hold for one, out for five. At some point, Genji looks away from the screen altogether; the bleeding man stuck to his chair with a pair of broken hands does nothing to add to what's happening off screen.

“You don't belong to anyone,” Gabriel flips back to English. “Okay? Remember that.”

There's a soft, wet sound of a sniffle and a quiet rustle of movement before McCree answers with a scoffing tone, “I belong to Blackwatch, don't I?”

A beat of silence. “You belong to the organization as a safety net for your crimes. You don’t belong to any one person, not like that. _Never_ like that, do you understand?” Another moment of silence accompanied by a quiet rustle. “McCree, why do you do what I tell you? Why do you follow my orders?”

“‘Cause I respect you.” It’s met without hesitation or forcefulness, and despite the shakiness of his breath and the hiccup that follows it’s meant with utmost sincerity.

“And why did you ever do what you were told in Deadlock?”

There isn’t an answer for a long time, just the sound of them breathing in tune with one another, in for three, hold for one, out for five. In for three, hold for one, out for five. Gabriel doesn’t push the answer, and McCree takes his time. In for three, hold for one, out for five.

“I…” A pause. “I was afraid.”

Gabriel doesn’t ask of what, Genji notices, he seems to understand just fine without it.

“Have you ever followed one of my orders out of fear?”

“Fear of getting another twenty laps added on to training, maybe,” McCree says it in jest, tries to chuckle afterwards but it comes out breathy and a little hysterical. “No, sir. Never.”

“There’s the difference. You don’t have a family if they fear one another; I’m your Commander, not your Alpha, and you don’t belong to me, or O’Malley, or _Morrison_ ,” a little bitterness seeps into his words that he reigns back as he continues, “Not even your beast. Not to anyone but yourself. I want you to remember that.”

McCree lets out a quiet, watery whine before he answers, “Yes’sir,” in an even tone.

The sound of rustling and footsteps, boots and talons alike, eat up the audio feed for a moment, but neither one of them reenter the video feed just yet.

“When we’re done with him, you can finish him,” Gabriel says.

“Boss?”

“We won’t need him after we get what we want, and he’s too much of a mess to keep around. Do you want to finish him?”

There’s no way to tell if the silence is of hesitation or over thinking, but Genji isn’t surprised when he hears McCree respond with a healthy, “I think I’d like that, very much.”

They return to the video screen without another word. Gabriel hoists the prisoner up non-too gently from the ground and situates him in front of the table while McCree goes to grab his hat, placing it promptly back on his head. Genji scrubs through the next hour of footage, uninterested in the interrogation; whatever it is is old news and he’s more interested in the ending. He stops the video when Gabriel gets up to leave, patting McCree on the shoulder as he walks out.

“Ain’t you forgettin’ your little lap dog?” The prisoner, whose speech is far worse than it had been earlier, manages between his spit and blood and busted lips.

“Nope.”

McCree quietly takes his hat off and sets it on the far end of the table, rolls up the sleeves of his jacket as he saunters over. The silver seeps into his eyes like water, but there’s nothing wild about it. It’s controlled but heated, boiling with revenge.

The last thing heard over the tape is Gabriel shutting the door behind him and speaking to O’Malley over the communication systems. “Cut the feed.”

 

The feed goes black and the video ends there, leaving Genji in the dark once again. He’s a little putoff at it stopping right before the good part, but he figures for legal reasons, and maybe a few personal ones, Gabriel wanted McCree’s little stint of revenge unrecorded. It’s another window, albeit small and vague, into McCree’s life as he matured through Blackwatch. Genji can see more of the McCree now in the McCree in the video, sturdy and determined but still a little shaky and finding his ground, his limitations. Gabriel, it seems, plays a big role in it. There was a file entitled _G. Reyes_ in the _Agents_ folder, and Genji thinks he might give it a look through.

Gabriel Reyes is dead, that much Genji knows. Overwatch, and subsequently this Blackwatch, ended years ago in Switzerland in an explosion that took the life of Strike Commander Morrison and Commander Reyes. His father had had a few meetings over it, but in the end the idea of Overwatch and their nonexistent partnership was buried with the two men. Genji isn’t sure about the woman, Captain Amari, or the rest of them for that matter, but if he were apart of an organization that died in such a violent way he’d be in hiding. It begs the question as to why McCree is, for all intensive purposes, not. He wonders if he’ll find the answer if he digs a little further. Just a little, he’s pushed for time and he’s already spent too much of it falling down the rabbit hole.

A few reports are shot from a traveling medical bay, both with O’Malley and McCree giving reports side by side, her on a chair seated next to him strapped down to a gurney. Genji begins to cross reference the reports with his medical files, and he brings them up on separate floating screens above the datapad. There’s the one where he fractures twenty-five bones and, it turns out, it was due to fighting gargoyles. Genji’s never had the pleasure and he can’t say he’d like to entertain the thought after seeing McCree sport his very out of line leg bone. Most of the injuries are silver wounds, and they match up with the order in his medical records; several gunshots wounds, one very messy wound to the stomach, knife wounds, but nothing to seriously take him out of commission. There are a few that don’t get a video, and he wonders if those are the missions he goes on with Gabriel, where he wouldn't need to send a report. The last video is the only video that gives him any insight into the redacted medical files.

 

McCree’s outside, the starry sky a dark backdrop to his solemn face, body hunched over like the datapad he holds is a secret. It illuminates his face with a soft blue glow, but nothing else. He’s quiet for a time, the sound of crickets and other nightly creatures filling in the silence, behind him a few people chattering can be heard but it’s obvious he’s far from anyone on his team when he gives this report.

“Hey Boss.” He’s taken to starting his reports like that now, nothing too formal and usually with a grin despite a broken nose or bloody face. This time it’s a heavy greeting, expression haggard and face dirty. He pauses once more before continuing.

“The shit really hit the fan with this one, our intel was all fucked. Dunno where this is,” he brings up a picture on the screen, a small shack in the middle of nowhere surrounded by nothing but desert expanse. “But it sure as shit wasn’t the coordinates that went along with it. Led us to a facility of some sort, I’m sending you the photos Mav took.”

The screen clutters with pictures of a large, intimidating building much different from the shack that they’d originally been looking for. It looks similar to a weapon manufacturing plant, the structure is familiar to Genji but it doesn’t look well kept and he would’ve taken it for abandoned if it wasn’t for a small light in an upper part of the building being on.

“O’Malley sent me, Mav, and Lynn to take a look since we got good night vision and she and the rest of the team went around the flank,” he starts marking the pictures with where they were while he explains the situation. “We didn’t set one foot inside but we were ambushed -- _Talon_ ,” he growls low in his throat at the name, eyes shining for a breath before they settle, “Whatever they were doing they didn’t want none of us to know, they fucking blew the place and everyone we tried to take alive popped a cyanide capsule. We tagged a truck we saw hauling off with a few others, I sent Jinn to shadow them but I ain’t heard back yet.”

He falls silent again, lowers his head so that his hat covers his face and deletes all the photos from the screen. The screen shakes a little and Genji can’t tell if McCree is shaking or if he’s just fidgeting.

“Something’s wrong with O’Malley, Boss. She got shot, but it ain’t silver, not even a regular bullet. It’s some weird black capsule, dissolves the second it hits blood. She ain’t calmed down since she got hit, that ain’t like her. I’m…” he pauses, runs a hand under his hat to push his hair back and grabs his hat before it tumbles off. He’s sweating, the light glow of the datapad reflecting off the sheen on his face and fidgeting. He’s scared, Genji thinks, but he won’t say it even when his eyes show it clear as day. This is a report, not a confession, so McCree keeps to the facts as he continues, “I’ll come back with any more news if I hear anything. I’ll contact Angie and… I forget if Ms. Amari’s in or not, but I’ll send word out too I think we’re gonna need ‘em. Expect a report from the doc in the meantime about O’Malley’s health. McCree out.”

 

Genji is out of McCree’s file in lightning speed and finds himself back into the _Agents_ folder scouring it for O’Malley’s file. He reads _S. O’Malley_ but when he taps it he’s prompted with another I.D. scanner that denies him for the first time with a red screen and an obnoxious noise. Genji tries again just in case, but it seems that only O’Malley and maybe someone of higher rank is allowed in. A curse ghosts against his lips as he looks through a few other files. _T. Maverick_ gives him entry, but there’s nothing of use in it.

_A. Jinn_ ’s file gives him insight into the truck debacle. It isn’t much, many seemingly important files have been redacted much like everything else, but it has its useful moments. Jinn returned to the team, wounded with one bullet wound which Genji finds peculiar. Why would they only fire one bullet, one non-lethal bullet, and why would that send Jinn back? The report reads they were hit in the shoulder of all places, and Genji can’t imagine that would stop them from pursuing. There’s little to the medical report that Genji can read, due to more redacting and not to chicken scratch; whoever wrote these seem to be a different person as the handwriting is neater. The bullet is extracted and is said to leave a curious bruising.

There’s a picture, and Genji’s heart stops.

What part of Jinn’s face is visible in the photo is blurred down to their neck, their left shoulder visible. At the collarbone there’s a wound, a deep seated hole that looks infected, but Genji knows it isn’t. He knows what’s wrong. There’s a sickeningly black discoloration around it, veiny as it spreads. There’s a dribble of blood seeping from it, and it’s a too dark red for it to be natural, no matter beast or human. It’s on a smaller scale than what he’s seen before -- Hanzo, McCree -- but he knows it well, a seared memory brought up again by recent events. Despite his best interests, Genji taps on the picture and enlarges it, brings it up off the surface to hover over the datapad. He leaves it there in the air for a moment. At the bottom of Jinn’s file is a mortuary report. All of it is redacted except for the all too obvious statement of _deceased_.

Genji furiously looks through more agents’ files. Many of them yield nothing, but he finds a few others he’s allowed into -- _P. Leiberg_ and _Y. Gilbert_ \-- and they give him what he’s looking for. He pulls up two more pictures, Leiberg is shot in the thigh and Gilbert is unlucky with two in the back, side by side. Both photos show the wounds festering similar to that of Jinn’s, though Gilbert’s looks more unpleasant than the rest. The area around both wounds is a more solid discoloring, nearly black enough to hide the wounds altogether but without any sort of rotting and that surprises him. Both Leiberg and Gilbert are marked deceased on their mortuaries.

He continues with renewed curiosity. Several times Genji passes _G. Reyes_ and doesn’t think to tap on it, if he can’t get into O’Malley’s files it’s very possible he won’t be able to get into the Commander of Blackwatch’s files, but when he scrolls past it again he stops to think. There’s a chance McCree cracked the I.D. scanner to give him access to someone like Gabriel, they’re close if what he’s seen is anything to go by. So maybe….

Genji is met with a flashing red screen and another obnoxious buzzing sound, effectively killing his theory.

Returning to McCree’s file, Genji does a once over on all the available files. He's pressed for time and knows it's been a while, his curiosity taking hold of him. It's reasonable to think it better to just have the portable hard drive finish copying the files and be done with it, search for what he's looking in the comfort and safety of his own home and not some iced shack in the woods but he has to know. Everything in these files stop at the same place and he wants to know why.

Talon is an unknown variable to him, he's never heard of them before. The fact that they can surprise an organization like Overwatch, like _Blackwatch_ is not something to gloss over. He wants to know what the bullet is, the black capsule McCree talks about that has him shaken. Call him greedy, but he wants to know.

There's an untitled folder buried in McCree’s files, so Genji clicks on it. It requires another scan and it's no surprise when it clears with McCree’s false hand print. Inside the videos are dated recently, at least within the last five years of recent. Some are documented newsclips of the explosion in Switzerland, at the United Nations. A couple are PDFs, untitled, and Genji takes a look at those first.

The first is just a written statement on what happened in Switzerland, and given that nothing is redacted Genji doesn't take any interest in it. The second PDF, however, is something he doesn't expect. It’s Gabriel Reyes’s medical file. Just the one, but it’s important, it’s _the_ one if there ever was such a thing. He ignores the way his hand shakes when he reaches to scroll through it. Everything is redacted, save the name and a photo that Genji brings up to float along with the others. It’s difficult to see between the small dark feathers that litter his lower back, but it’s there, a small bullet wound that festers just like the rest with too dark blood dripping out in a tar-like texture.

There’s something here, something missing that Genji needs to put all of this together. A connection that is making everything he thought he knew start to tilt just so.

He doubles back to the news clips that report about the Switzerland incident. They rattle off names of the deceased, names that don’t mean anything to him until he hears “ _Strike Commander Jack Morrison… … Commander Gabriel Reyes_ ” but that doesn’t sit right with him. There’s nothing more on the news reports as the news, as per usual, likes to listen to itself talk and repeat, repeat, repeat.

He triples back to the recordings that are dated recently and finds the oldest, five years ago.

 

The area in nondescript, a motel maybe given the floral print wallpaper in the back that’s peeling and dingy, the stained curtains at the corner of the screen. The datapad, or whatever it is he’s using to record this, is sitting on a table, and McCree’s mop of brown hair pools onto it while his face rests between the crooks of his elbows folded in front of him. He doesn’t speak for a long time, and while the silence in the room builds Genji can hear the ambiance outside of wherever he’s held up. There’s the soft echo of a train whistle in the distance, some doors opening and shutting, muffled chatter. Car lights flash in through the window every so often as they pass by. A motel, Genji decides.

“He ain’t dead,” McCree’s voice is muffled but startling when he speaks. “That goddamn son of a bitch ain’t dead.”

He shifts so that he's looking, talking into the camera and his eyes are glassy, shining with a mix of silver and unshed tears. This looks more like the McCree of now, a full trimmed beard, hair nearly down to his shoulders, and a desperate look of determination settling in his gaze. There's a little bit of wildness in him, but there's no telling what phase the moon is while he records, so Genji writes it off.

“He's here, in Santa Fe. Dunno what for but I saw him, Angie, shit, I _saw_ him I ain't crazy. I know by the time you get this, it'll be all over the news but you gotta believe me it's him,” McCree pauses, curls his fingers in his hair almost pulling at it. “I… I’m not coming back, I _can't_ . I ain't gonna leave him, Angie, you know he wouldn't do that to me, to the team. Hell, he wouldn't even do that to you or _your_ team. You know damn well! So don't send Lena -- God _please_ don't send Lena to trail me. Don't send anyone. I'll keep in touch as often as I can, just… trust me on this, okay? I gotta find our friend, I gotta find Gabe.”

 

There’s more, but Genji pauses it. Above him, the dust and debri of the ceiling shifts and falls around him unnaturally. He holds his breath, clutching the datapad in a white-knuckled grip. It’s one thing to break into McCree’s shoddy excuse for a hideout for useless information about a dead organization, it’s something entirely different looking through things that are deeply personal. But there's something here, it's on the tip of his tongue. There’s the tiniest ounce of fear worming its way into his rapidly beating heart as he wonders if he’s overstayed, but Hanzo hasn’t given him the signal yet. Color him paranoid, but he just wants to check, just wants to calm his clearly irrational fears as he presses to fingers to his ear to radio his brother.

“Hanzo?” It’s barely a whisper, his brother’s name on his lips. Static answers him and he tries again, “ _Hanzo_.”

The nothingness causes a clammy shiver up his spine, and Genji wonders if maybe the same thing that’s keeping the datapads in the area is jamming his signal.

It isn’t just the fact that he’s here without permission, rifling through things that aren’t his to see. It’s the trust he’s asked McCree to give him, trust him that he won’t get hurt, trust him that he’ll be safe, trust him that he’ll be taken care of, _trust him_. And now he’s here, thought to be somewhere else through the lies on Hanzo’s tongue, but he’s been here for almost two hours, maybe more. Genji’s truly pushed his luck.

Keeping his eyes trained on the ceiling, watching how every so often the debri shifts, dusting the table with a new layer of film, Genji pulls the portable data stick off the datapad with shaking hands and puts it in his pocket. There’s the undeniable urge to rush the process of putting away the datapads in the duffel bag, toss it into the closet, and run out the door but he doesn’t, he takes his time coolly and quietly. It’s when he reaches the door that he hesitates, hand outstretched to push it against the snow that’s inevitably built up. With his free hand, he reaches behind him to place it none too casually on his short sword, but the motion is meaningless if he doesn’t mean to use it. If push comes to shove, he will.

The door takes some muscle to push it open enough for him to shimmy his way out, but he goes no further than the one step he’s taken into the shin deep snow. The sun, still low in the sky, casts a pale yellow glaze over the forest, softening the chilled morning in an apology for the snowfall earlier. The shadows are stark against everything, long lines that stretch away from him. He stands in the shadow of the shack and he can see the snow piles on the roof. There’s nothing above him, and he takes a step.

One step, one breath, one beat of his heart. one step, one breath, one beat of his heart; but his heart is pounding, frantic and not at all in sync with his steps.

The silence is deafening, the crisp sound of snow beneath his feet almost too loud for him to feel comfortable. He feels heavy, like the guilt weighing on his shoulders is a tangible object, palpable in the wind so that when it blows the icy chill of it stings his nose and cheeks in punishment. Genji doesn’t know what he’ll tell Hanzo about the things he saw, if he’ll show him when he gets back or delete them. There’s no way to hide what he is anymore, an unfortunate end but McCree has to know he isn’t welcome here, not in their territory. They’ve done their deals, and nothing was said about him staying. He’ll be safe if he leaves, and the thought alone has Genji stopping but five steps away from the shack.

Why does he _care_? Why is his heart in his throat, and why do his hands shake so much?

Something in the shadow of the house has changed. An uneven lump in the snowy hills that have made their home on the roof have shifted, one much larger than the rest. The wind blows and the snow kicks up, but that one doesn’t move like the others, that shadow has fur. It’s unsettling how quiet he is, something so massive and bulky.

Genji visibly shivers and they both know he’s been caught.

There’s nothing more for him to do but run, so Genji runs. He runs two, maybe three feet before the shadow leaps at him, impossibly far, and the ground is coming up much faster than Genji can account for. He sinks into the snow with a painful weight atop him, three big paws pinning him down. Genji tries to reach for his sword, but there’s a nasty snarl and a too close for comfort snapping of wet jaws near his hand as he moves. He stills himself, breathing harshly into the snow pile as he searches for the right words. There are none, he knows that.

“McCree.” There’s a loud, menacing growl above him, close to his ear. Genji can feel saliva dripping onto his uniform and can’t find it in him to care. He’s alive, which is more than what he expected, and that’s enough. “Let me explain --”

McCree snarls angrily, baring his teeth to Genji and he leans his weight forward more. His one front paw is digging in between his shoulderblades, and despite the anger radiating off of him there’s still a form of restraint when he feels the bluntness of his retracted nails against his back. The weight of his back paws barring his legs from moving between his claws lifts for a moment, but it doesn’t mean much when McCree still keeps himself hovered over Genji. The weight on his back shifts up and he stiffens slightly as it moves over his neck, into his hair. McCree grips it none too gently, causing the other to illicit a yelp as he’s dragged up out of the snow. There’s the feeling of a large, wet nose pressing into his side, the feeling of teeth gnawing at something and Genji’s heart is racing in his throat when he feels the weight of his short sword leave him, falling beneath his feet. It’s only then that McCree starts back towards the shack, claws sinking into the snow but it seems to hinder him only a little. Genji doesn’t bother struggling, he knows he isn’t getting out of this and at the expense of not pissing McCree of further, he only squirms at the discomfort of his hair being pulled.

Inside, Genji is haphazardly dumped onto the mattress butt first, and the springs are so dead he doesn’t even bounce. Something crawls out from underneath it across the floor and around McCree’s wet paws. He attempts to move off the mattress, but the other growls low, a warning and points one, gnarled claw at Genji, at the mattress, then at Genji again. He’s being told to stay and Genji is really in no position to argue. McCree leaves and it’s awkward watching him navigate through the cramped spaces of the shack, but he seems familiar enough with the unorganized mess that it is that he knows just where to step so that his weight doesn’t crush through a weak floorboard, side steps with ease so that he doesn’t shoulder one of the beams holding up the roof. He isn’t gone long, Genji barely counts to a minute before the thumping of his footsteps reaches the front door again. He has his serape in his mouth, folded like it’s holding something and if Genji had to guess, had to _hope_ after all the trouble they went through, it’s his arm amongst a few other things. The door shuts and McCree makes his way back to the mattress, silver eyes never leaving his uninvited guest.

The transformation from a human to a werewolf is one that Genji is familiar with. It’s uncomfortable to watch, sickening to listen to, and the smell leaves those with even strong stomachs cupping handkerchiefs and the like to their noses. He’s never seen the transformation in reverse, not in person, and now he can say without a doubt that it’s no less unpleasant than its predecessor. It’s the sound of the bones snapping and breaking and popping, a wet, thick sound, that always gets Genji. He’s broken bones, dislocated a few and even popped his own dislocated joints back in after an unscripted fight or two, but werewolves, for lack of a better term, do it better, and it’s worse. He looks away, not out of politeness but out of mercy for his own stomach, as McCree’s skin pulls and sinks inward on itself to reform to that of a human stature. The fur melts away, steam fills the room along with the unpleasant smell of something that Genji, after all these years, can really only describe as _that werewolf smell_ wafts through the tiny space. It’s particular and pungent and he’s never, thankfully, smelled it on any other occasion than when a werewolf transforms. He does his best not to pull his hand over his nose and simply opt for looking away until the sound of bones clicking together ceases, and the next thing he hears is a very human sigh coming from a very human looking McCree.

He’s shaved, a stupid thing to notice given his circumstance, and he looks about ten years younger for it. It’s not all gone, a little is left on the chin and up near his sideburns it’s tastefully trimmed, but the ragged wanderer look is lost and standing in front of Genji is someone who looks much more like the McCree on the datapad. The only thing that sits crooked is his mouth, it isn’t upturned in a wicked, sinful grin but pulled downward into a vicious sneer. McCree opens his mouth to say something, but after a second he shuts it, turning away from Genji to busy himself with another immediate matter -- clothes.

Genji keeps his eyes trained on McCree from there on out, and he wishes it was to sneak a peek as he dressed. He’s angry, and he doesn’t know how to predict him or what he'll do. It rolls off of him in waves as he pulls on a pair of briefs, dark brown trousers over them. It’s in his movements, sharp and jerky as he snatches a black thermal from the duffel bag next to the bed only to throw it on the mattress when he realizes he’s missing something. Wrapped up in the serape is his belt with the obnoxious golden buckle, boots, hat and prosthetic, and he takes his time reattaching it, familiarizing himself with the process.

“You’ve got alotta nerve, you know that?” McCree finds his voice and when he does it mirrors his frustration. He doesn’t bother looking up at Genji, his focus is on his arm. “Asking me to trust you when you’re playin’ this little game of yours.”

“McCree.”

“ _Don’t_ .” His head whips around, eyes shining bright in the dim room. To Genji’s credit he doesn’t flinch, but he’d feel a lot better with a weapon on hand, something silver. He has his knees tucked into him near his chest, ready to kick out if he needs too; he’s outfitted in his hunting gear, he’s sure McCree doesn’t miss the silver talons doning his feet. They're made for climbing, but that doesn't mean Genji won't use them as a weapon. “I don’t wanna hear your excuses, I had to kill two people --” he holds up two fingers with his fleshy hand, a hand that’s tinted red with someone’s blood. “-- two of _your_ people on the way over here. A little parting gift from your brother, I presume, since he couldn’t radio you.”

He clicks his tongue and shakes his head, going back to his arm as he fiddles with it. They sit in silence again as he finishes up, pulls on his shirt followed by the serape, belt, and boots. He leaves the hat on the ground and digs through the duffle bag again for something new, a holster, a _full_ holster with a revolver he hadn’t been sporting when they first met. The model is old, Genji recognizes, but it shines like it’s brand new with a wood polish finish on the hilt.

“This ain’t my first rodeo kid, I’ve done more stake-outs and recons in five years than you’ve probably done your whole life,” McCree turns to him again, arms folding over his chest. “Yet here I am, a fucking moron in this situation -- I _knew_ better, you almost had me with all that false bravado of yours. You would’ve done wonders in Blackwatch if you weren’t such a silver spooned brat.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It’s risky to play dumb, but Genji fixes his voice about an octave higher when he speaks, tilts his head to one side just so. He knows he probably won’t go for it, but it’s worth a shot.

And he doesn’t. McCree clicks his tongue and chuckles, moves to sit on the rickety table in the center of the room as he unfolds his arms. “No, no you ain’t that good. Quit playing that fuckin’ game, because I’m only gonna ask you once, Genji,” he outstretches an arm towards him, hand open and ready. “Give it to me.”

“Give you what?” He knows what.

McCree’s hand flexes. “The data stick.”

“No.”

He’s walking a thin line here, he can see it in the muscles in McCree’s face, the way they twitch as he inhales slowly, deeply; in for three, hold for one, out for five. It’s kept with him all these years.

“I will give it to you, if --”

“No, no _ifs_ !” He shouts, banging his fists on the already unstable table he’s sitting on. “You don’t get to do that, you ain’t stealin’ those files from me! You have _no_ right!”

“I want answers!” Genji manages over him, rummaging through his pockets. He pulls out the rectangular stick, holding it between his forefinger a thumb to show it off to McCree. “You can have this, but I want answers.”

McCree looks to be warring with himself over the decision, whether it’s the choice in front of him now or the choice to trust Genji again or both, he isn’t sure but if Genji had to guess probably both. His eyes are a mixture of metallic silver and matted brown as he eyes the data stick and his hands grip the edge of the table in a white-knuckled hold. This is hard for him, and Genji feels that guilt slip back into him. This is something personal to him and while he doesn’t feel good hanging it over McCree’s head like this, he has questions.

“I don’t need this data stick to tell my brother what I saw,” Genji says softly. “But I can always omit things, whatever you want as long as you answer my questions.”

That seems to get his attention a little better. McCree straightens up a bit as he eyes him.

“I don’t need to tell you what’ll happen if you go back on your word now, do I?”

“I like to think I know better than that,” Genji tilts his chin up at him. “I would prefer leaving alive.”

“Alright…” he mumbles, running a hand through his hair and lets out a rough sigh. “ _Alright_. What do you want to know about?”

Genji sits up a little more confidently on the mattress as he speaks, a knowing glimmer in his eyes.

“I want to know about Gabriel Reyes,” he answers. “I want to know about our _harpy_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about this being super late (again)! November was, you know... well, it happened and the holiday madness has eaten up a little more time than I would've liked. To add to that, I spent more time than I meant to on this chapter for a myriad of reasons. I can't promise the next chapter won't take just as long because of more holiday madness, but I very much appreciate everyone's patience!
> 
> Thank you to all of the very kind words and comments both on and off AO3 ❤ feel free to hit me up on madamerioulette@tumblr
> 
> EDIT: sorry for the really weird formatting error near the end with Jinn's name!


	5. And The Gunslinger Followed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He watched as a family he came to know and love fall further than anyone ever should, and he's going to make sure Genji knows it.

The silence is as uncomfortable as it is unsettling for the three men in the room. None of them are Genji, have Genji, are informed on Genji or his whereabouts, and they’re waiting for the inevitable berating that comes with failing Hanzo. Genji’s never gone missing, if one can call it that. Technically, they know where he is, he’s still in the shoddy little shack in the woods West of here, but they haven’t heard anything from him in three hours. Hanzo sent out five men and three returned empty handed.

Genji went missing once, if one can call it that then too. It was shortly after their father died, a week after the funeral, and one morning he just wasn’t there. The servants fled to Hanzo but hesitated to tell him until one of them blurts out that the young master is  _ missing  _ and Hanzo remembers feeling a twinge of panic. He checks the usual places; Rikimaru, the obnoxious arcade across the street, the three high brow clubs he frequents and the three dive bars he’ll dip his feet into on a particularly rough night, and finally their suite. Before they were born, their father had bought out a suite at a rather ritzy hotel closer to the city, a little in between place when they had business in the city but didn’t wish to stay there. At least once a year they would go as a family, their father, Hanzo, Genji, and their mother. It’s cruel circumstance that Genji doesn’t remember their mother the way Hanzo does, he was older and more aware, but any bit of something they used to share with her Genji holds dear as if he does remember like Hanzo. They stopped going as frequently after her death, but that didn’t stop them from using it for their own personal benefits as they got older. He’s there when Hanzo checks, locked away in the room they used to share as kids but use no more, and he can hear him even through the door and whatever muffles his voice as he cries into it. 

They mourn differently, opposites like they are in many other things. Not when it came to their mother, both children and beyond the concept of internalizing anything, but when it came to their father. Genji is all external emotion when pushed too far, it comes in fits and bursts until he can’t hold it anymore and it breaks like a dam threatening to swallow him whole. Hanzo is better at internalizing, but it pains him no less than his brother. What they can agree on, when Hanzo finally gets the door open, is a drink or two or six to their father and their inherited empire and the unspoken third that neither bring up because even after so many years her death stings.

This is different.

“Inhuman,” one of them finally manages, voice wavering. “The man is inhuman.”

They witnessed McCree throw one man into a tree with near effortless strength, spearing him in the gut with a well placed branch. The other lies dead in the snow with his throat torn out with one quick twist of a hand that may or may not have had fur on it. When he turns to them with eyes like silver disks, pale as the moon itself, a sound emitting from his throat that even now sends shivers down their spines they ran when they knew they shouldn’t.

Their heads remained bowed even when they hear Hanzo stand up from the table.

“So then why are you here?” He asks, voice thick with displeasure. “Are you not hunters?”

The discomfort is nearly palpable. No one answers, not out of disrespect but fear; they know the answer and they know Hanzo knows the answer. He huffs indignantly and circles the table, pausing to give the three who returned a glaring look before leaving the room altogether. There isn’t time to deal with them right now, not when Genji is out somewhere with something that may or may not be completely human. He’s a big believer in the quote, no matter how cliche, that if you want something done right, one must do it themself. That usually extends to Genji, his other half in terms of family, but when his other half goes missing, well… it’s better to do it himself.

Hanzo dresses in his hunting garb, the off white uniform with the orange undertones, the Shimada Clan symbol woven into the cloth on his left sleeve. It’s symbolic in more ways than one, made specifically to mimic the dragon tattoos he and his brother had gotten at eighteen and sixteen, respectively, in honor of a fairytale Hanzo no longer believes in. Dragons of the south, their father had told him, twins that rode the static wind through storms effortlessly. They are a deep blue against his flesh, intertwined with each other and gray storm clouds that stretch from his wrist all the way to his left pectoral. Genji used to tease him in good fun about how that was the flashiest thing Hanzo’s ever done, and he can’t really argue even now. His brother’s uniform matches his symbology; a Shimada Clan insignia woven into the back of his uniforms to mimic the single green dragon that winds its way up his spine. Despite the initial purpose of it all, Hanzo is still proud to bear it, and thinks so still as he pulls the uniform up and over the tattoo that seems to spark across his flesh. Anxiety, he writes it off, for his brother. 

Grabbing the Storm Bow from the neatly placed wall rack in his room and a quiver of arrows, Hanzo leaves Shimada Castle by himself to search for Genji, heading West.

 

⭐️

 

The data stick sits between them on the floor, even length apart from both McCree who has kept himself seated on the lopsided table in the center of the shack and Genji who has relaxed somewhat on the mattress with his feet kicked out just a little. They’ve calmed down a little, but the tension is still in the air like a static between them. McCree takes measured breathes, in for three, hold for one, out for five, to ease the anxiety tightening in his chest. He’s not sure what Genji saw, but it’s already too much if he knows Gabe’s name, the way he says it with an undertone of suspicion.

_ I want to know about our  _ harpy.

If he’s being honest, and he isn’t, he has no right to berate Genji for playing this little game of his. That doesn’t mean he won’t, of course, he’ll play his too for as long as he can get away with it, but eventually it’ll all come crashing together. They’re both liars, they’re  _ good  _ at it, they were born for it, but it stings a little something different coming from Genji and he wonders if it’ll hurt him just the same. 

No that isn’t right, he hasn’t lied, he just omitted. Yeah, omitted. McCree knows that won’t fly with him, but if it makes him feel better he’ll say it to himself as many times as he needs.

His right leg won’t stop bouncing on the floor and it’s making the table creek in an unfortunate way. McCree doesn’t want to talk about this, he was so close to being home free, so damn close but Genji had to be nosey. He wants to be surprised by it all, but five years of Blackwatch training won’t let him, so it just hurts. The Shimada Clan wasn’t going to let someone like McCree just waltz out of Hanamura, the unknown variable who shows up out of nowhere with half an arm missing and useful information. 

Well… useful is a term used loosely, but he’ll get to that bridge and burn it when he gets there, standing atop of it as it bursts into flames no doubt.

“When we finish this conversation, you forget his name,” McCree starts, looking Genji right in the eyes. They’re wide and attentive, taking in everything. “Gabriel Reyes is just a name on a gravestone to you, understand?”

The nod is small but it exists so he’ll take what he can get. “I want to know what happened to him, and the rest of your teammates that were attacked by Talon -- and who are they, Talon? I do not recognize their name.”

McCree’s fingers dig into the edge of the table at the name,  _ Talon _ . “They’re a plague at worst, a dangerous and mysterious organization at best. Blackwatch had been tailing them since before I was in the ranks, sorta died down after the Omnic Crisis but had a nasty resurgence. With it came a newer threat for people like us -- me. They sorta thrive off fearmongering of the masses. 

“So with the Omnics being old news they turned their attention to non-humans and came up with this…  let’s call it a drug, we never did get a good lead on what it was. The first time we ever had to deal with it was when a mission went tits up and Gabe’s right hand went down -- O’Malley?” Genji gives him a quick nod in confirmation, and McCree continues. “Our teammate Jinn went down the same mission, both shot with this bullet that wasn’t really a bullet neither, sorta dissolved into the bloodstream as soon as it entered. They said it burned something fierce, like ice that’s too cold.”

“Does it have anything to do with the harpy wounds?” Genji interrupts quietly, motioning to the other’s prosthetic.

“I… don’t know,” he admits, losing eye contact. “If I had to take a guess, I’d say no. My wound never affected me the way the bullets did to the others, and it never ate away at their skin. But we never did encounter anything quite like the harpy….”

McCree nibbles at the inside skin of his cheek for a moment before tilting his head back up to Genji. “It changed us, people like me. It was slow at first, O’Malley and Jinn took about four months to start changing. They were both screamin’ at first, howling bloody murder all the way home and our medic had to give them some heavy sedatives to calm ‘em. Took them two days to wake up and when they did they couldn’t remember anything after getting shot.

“O’Malley was a siren, we had all this special gear we took with us just in case she had to sing on missions. It was a rule for new agents to go through some special training beforehand, to get a hold on who you’d be working with and what they were capable of. O’Malley’s was still the worst, second to Gabe’s anyway, it’s a real fuckin’ trip hearing her. Gorgeous voice, don’t get me wrong but she marched our sorry asses buckass nude and --” he’s reminiscing and catches himself. Genji remains silent, eyes alight with interest in the story but it isn’t the right time and McCree shouldn’t have shared it in the first place. He swallows hard enough for it to be audible, he thinks, and continues. “Anyway, she was a siren. They don’t change like my kind, it’s all illusions with them. We started seeing her lose herself during training, her illusion would slip and we’d catch a glimpse of the real O’Malley. It wasn’t like her to do that, she took a lot of pride in her control and the fact that it was slippin’ seemed to freak her out.

“So one day we’re in training for an aquatic mission in the olympic pool, but O’Malley isn’t there, Gabe’s giving us the drills and I think it’s because the Strike Commander of Overwatch was there that day to check up on the other half you know? But he’s in another room when it happens, and I still dunno if it was good or bad that he was but… O’Malley comes in, I remember hearing her, and she starts taking off her gear, like her breathin’ gear and her goggles,” McCree’s leg starts to bounce again unconsciously. “She starts singin’ real loud, louder than I ever remember her singin’ and I don’t remember nothin’ after that. I dunno how much time passed, but next thing I know Gabe’s pulling me out of the pool shaking me awake and O’Malley’s dead, floating in the water. She’d sung us to the bottom of the pool and tried to drown us. The Strike Commander shot her and I’ve never seen Gabe angrier than he was that day, screamin’ at him for shooting her and I… I can't say that I blame him.”

McCree bites his bottom lip and looks away at the busted in closet. It was a rough few days after that, he remembers. O’Malley had been like an older sister to everyone, stern and orderly but she cared, she cared like Gabriel cared because they weren’t just assets they were people with hearts and minds and souls of all types. Losing her like that had been difficult for all of them, but what worried them more was how she’d acted. O’Malley would have never done something like that, and it had frightened Jinn. Out of the whole ordeal, McCree had gotten a promotion, but it never sat right with him. Gabriel had been planning on making O’Malley Captain, giving her her own team and, when he was ready, giving McCree her position as right hand. It came too early, and it showed but it wasn’t for lack of trying.

“And the rest of your teammates?” Genji asks, silent until now like he was letting the memory settle before he started up again. 

McCree swallows hard. “Well, the whole thing freaked out Jinn, they’d been feeling out of sorts too so we quarantined them out of safety for everyone. A few days after O’Malley’s incident, Jinn changed in the same way and couldn’t come back from it. We treated Lee and Gilly similarly, put ‘em up in quarantine for safety but we hated it. At that point it was kinda hard to keep it out of the UN’s business and they came down to check it out.”

He takes another pause. His left hand is creating a palm-sized dent in the wood and his right is clawing ceaselessly at it, wood shavings dropping quietly to the floor. Genji lets him have his moment and for that McCree is thankful. He’s being long-winded, he knows, and halfway dancing around the answer Genji wants but he needs to know the whole story, not what the news or the “official” reports say. McCree was there, he knows it better than anyone. He watched as a family he came to know and love fall further than anyone ever should, and he’s going to make sure Genji knows.

“See, the thing about the UN though is that they never wanted to see us for what we were. They saw us as assets, a group of people who didn’t mind gettin’ their hands dirty for the greater good, but had Strike Commander Morrison as the figurehead,” McCree offers a shaky, dry laugh that’s empty. “The second we get out of line or become a liability, they don't want nothin’ to do with us. They told us to get rid of them, put ‘em out of their misery like they weren't no better than a couple of wild animals and not our friends, our  _ family _ . If we didn't do it they would and Gabe was having none of that, but you can imagine what that does to a man, having to put a bullet in his own.”

Wood groans and splinters under McCree’s prosthetic hand, the sudden sound of it shaking both of them from the somber moment. The heel of his palm has created a divot into the surface while his fingers have broken into the table almost effortlessly.

“I'm sorry,” Genji offers, voice quiet. “About your comrades.”

“Hmm.” McCree takes his sympathy with a grain of salt. It's hard to take it any other way after he found him snooping around. He shakes his metal hand of debris before settling down and continuing.

“It wasn't random. Talon was pinpointing our strengths and dismantling us. You wonder, why don't they just kill us, right? But there's more to it, I don't know what but you don't torture just for kicks, unless you're a sick freak like that. O’Malley knew all the secrets Gabe did, and losing a right hand without a fully competent backup left us floundering. Jinn lead in recon, Lee and Gilly were the best damn hackers we had.”

“And Gabriel was your commander,” Genji added.

“They hadn't been aiming for him,” McCree corrects sourly. There's a heavy pause, a hesitance choking him and the words that need to be said. “It was me. We were on a mission together and I wasn't paying attention like a goddamn idiot, was focusing on the others when Gabe tackled me to the ground. I didn't even hear the gunshot. Got him instead… a week before the UN converged to a meeting between us and them about the growing Talon threat.

“I don't know why it's affecting him differently, why his wounds fester the way they do, but it's all wrong. The others were never like that, and An-- one of my correspondents said there was a possibility that the drug was tailored specifically for the target, so Gabe taking the bullet for me might've been worse. Dunno whether the explosion had anything to do with it either. It took me a year to finally see him again, I wasn't even looking, just taking some time in Santa Fe because I thought he was dead and there he was.”

Genji shifts suddenly and McCree snaps his attention up to him. He's looking at him with narrowed eyes, a glint of suspicion in them and this is what McCree was dreading. The moment Genji put the pieces together and figured him out.

“So you have been hunting him for the last five years,” it’s a statement, not a question. “You seem like a capable man, McCree. Gabriel said it himself in the recordings, Blackwatch doesn’t take good for nothings. Unlike my brother and I, who seasonally hunt the harpy because we cannot hunt outside our country legally, you have tracked and followed it for five years. That seems like an awful long time to be hunting year round, don’t you think?”

McCree leans back on the balls of his palms, tilting his chin up at Genji. “Yeah, five years is a long time.”

The realization is almost visible, a twitch at the corner of the other’s mouth that pulls it downward, eyes blown wide and dark. An emotion flashes against them, and if McCree had to put a name to it he'd say it was awfully akin to betrayal.

“You aren’t hunting it, are you?” When McCree doesn’t answer, Genji’s temper rises. “You aren’t  _ hunting _ it!”

“You don’t understand what’s goin’ on,” he tries to soothe, voice calm and collected but it’s already out on the table, spilling its contents and Genji’s picking up on all the little things he’s lied about -- omitted, he reminds himself.

“You aren’t hunting it and -- you… your information?” He laughs breathily, scooting closer to the edge of the mattress. “Is it even legitimate information?” 

He hesitates. “Some of it, yes. I didn’t want you gettin’ hurt, the bits about how to survive, what kind of gear to outfit yourselves in, his fighting style -- that’s all real.”

“And the rest?” Genji asks accusingly.

“I can’t have you or anyone else hunting him, Genji, you don’t understand. There’s still a part of him in there, it ain’t much but he’s in there I know it.”

“McCree, he is a  _ monster _ . You are chasing after a dead man.” That earns him a low, guttural growl but it does nothing to deter Genji, and so he continues, “That thing almost took my brother’s life and you have the gall to come into our  _ home  _ and lie to us about important information about a dangerous creature!”

McCree’s eyebrow raise at that, as if Genji has any leeway to talk about waltzing into people’s homes under false pretenses.

“What’s the matter, no one ever beat you at your own game before?”

That gets a rise out of Genji, so much so that he doesn’t expect the swift kick to his face. He feels the burn of silver across his cheek, a graze and nothing more but it still hurts. McCree’s face jerks to the side and Genji takes that moment of distraction to leap off the mattress and snatch the data stick off the ground, sprinting to the door. He’s fast, but McCree’s faster even as a human, gracefully fumbling over the table to grab Genji by the scarf and tug him backwards. Genji gags as he snaps back, the air being knocked out of him twofold as he lands on the floor with a rough  _ thud _ , and the other spares no time swinging himself over the table to pin him down and grapple for the data stick in his hand. They look like schoolboys wrestling on a dusty, rotten floor fighting over something less important than McCree’s personal life, and there’s a clear winner even if Genji refuses to let up as he squirms beneath a heavy weight.

“Genji  _ please _ ,” he pleads, holding the other’s wrist in each hand. His prosthetic holds his prize, but Genji’s fingers are gripped so tightly around it his fingernails are starting to cut little bleeding half moons into his palm. “You don’t understand --”

“Then make me, or you will have to break my hand if you want that data stick.” He stops fighting against the practically immovable weight long enough to offer McCree an ultimatum. “What don’t I understand?”

“Gabe’s still in there, I know he is. Between the fits, he’s trying to show me something. I haven’t just been followin’ aimlessly, he’s leading me to places, to Talon outposts, to people with information.”

“Talon is not here in Japan, or else we would know.”

“I haven’t figured out why he keeps taking me here yet, there are a few places I don’t understand and he’ll just move on to someplace else, somewhere I can get a handle on things. I know it sounds crazy, but he recognizes me --”

“Does he?” Genji accuses, tilting his head towards McCree’s prosthetic. It’s holding down on his right wrist, squeezing threatenly around it. “Does he truly recognize you?”

“It ain’t always him, sometimes it’s too much to fight and I understand, I know the feeling,” McCree’s brows furrow, knitting tightly together. “It’s been six years and it’s gettin’ worse, I have to figure out what he’s trying to show me and I can’t have you hunting him. I don’t want you getting hurt. So stop hunting him.”

“No.”

McCree doesn’t expect any other answer to be honest, but he figures it’s worth a try. “Give me the data stick.”

“ _ No _ .” He expects that answer less, increasing the pressure around his wrist. “You’re delusional. You want to see a man you used to know who meant a lot to you, that is something I can understand. But you need to wake up, McCree. Your friend is dead, you need to stop chasing a ghost.”

The words ring with a bitter familiarity, the way Angela tried to calmly coax him out of following a harpy driven mad and reckless. You need to stop chasing a ghost, she says, or you’ll end up dead like him. There had been a time, between the explosion in Switzerland and the moment he saw the purple-black feathers float across the wavy desert lines in New Mexico, where he would’ve welcomed death like an old friend. When Angela says it, he turns off the holovid without another word and doesn’t bother to listen to the rest of her message. When Genji says it, McCree lets out a low, frustrated whine and slams his wrist against the ground none-too gently.

“Give me the goddamn data stick, Genji, I ain’t gonna ask again.” He tries not to sound too much like he’s begging. It’s an honest fact when he says he doesn’t want to hurt him, Genji’s never done him wrong -- until today, he reminds himself. Snooping aside, he’s been the nicest hunter to date. They’ve lied to each other, and there’s a film of betrayal wrapping around them both, but that doesn’t mean McCree wants to hurt him. He hates hurting people, he’s never enjoyed granting death and he doesn’t get a sick kick out of torture either. 

On top of that, he likes Genji and that makes this all the harder. He’s a goddamn fool, but he takes solace in thinking he might not be the only one.

Genji doesn’t open his hand and stares McCree right in the eyes, into his soul that mirrors his, a softness that doesn’t belong. There’s defiance in that stare, a hint of betrayal chasing the edges that swim along the flight or fight instincts that engulf him. There’s regret in McCree’s, a hint of betrayal chasing the edges that swim along an apology that swallows him when he raises Genji’s right hand off the ground.

Something in the wind changes, and there’s too much blood rushing in McCree’s ears for him to pick it up before it’s too late. An arrow rushes by, through a crack in the window and between the wooden boards that bar most of it, and lodges itself comfortably in the wall behind McCree. It doesn’t take a genius to realize it missed on purpose.

“Duck.” Genji almost whispers, and the word leaves him like it hadn’t meant to, slipping out between his lips. 

He does, pressing himself flush against the other as a second arrow whistles by and eats up the space where his head would’ve been. McCree growls, lifting his head enough to look at the window being assaulted. He hears someone outside the shack but just barely, they're making a concerted effort to make as little noise as possible. If he had to guess, it's Hanzo. After three seasons of watching them from afar, he's somewhat familiar with his skills as a bowman. The too quiet high pitched ringing coming from the first arrow tips him off that it's a sonar.

“Let me go,” Genji says against his cheek. “Or he  _ will  _ kill you.”

McCree huffs a short chuckle, manhandling the other to turn onto his stomach. He picks him up around the middle, pulling his back flush against his front with his right hand still grasped in his.

“I have a funny feeling he'll kill me no matter what. I'll let you go when you give me the data stick.”

There's some struggling on Genji’s part as he's dragged across the floor, being used as a meat shield so McCree can move.

“You need to see the truth of it, McCree. He is not your friend anymore.”

“He attacks you because you're a threat. You and your brother need to stay out of my way, or you're gonna get hurt.”

“Funny, I was about to say the same,” Genji looks back over his shoulder at the other with a gaze in his eyes that brings McCree back to when they first met. Low-lidded, sultry, a well-placed distraction. “Stay out of our way.”

Through the window comes another arrow from a different angle, hitting the wall to their left but it ricochettes and scatters into half a dozen smaller pieces. One of them hits McCree in the left leg, another in his left arm right above his prosthetic. He lets out a shout in pain but doesn't loosen his grip on Genji. Outside there is movement, and McCree catches a swift blur of motion between the slats in the window. The hand around Genji’s wrist tightens harshly; time is running out for him and he's done playing nice. He can hear the soft whine of the bones as they bend under his fingers, and a harsher, pained whine come from Genji who begins thrashing in earnest. His free hand digs its fingers into McCree’s thigh, searching for the silver arrow that pierces it. When he does he wraps his fingers around the shaft and twists, the pointed tip of it burning and tearing at the muscle. McCree grits his teeth, biting back a howl of pain as he tightens the grip on Genji’s hand further.

There's a sickening pop in the wrist and Genji yells, his fingers finally unfurling. The data stick drops to the ground with a muted  _ clack  _ and McCree wastes no time snatching it up.

“I'm sorry,” he apologizes in earnest for what it's worth, offering a look of sympathy as he ducks his head low.

Genji retaliates with a swift elbow in his ribs before scrambling away, holding his right hand in his other.

McCree doesn't bother with formalities. He crushes the data stick with an effortless twitch of his fingers and punches a hole into the floorboards with the same hand. Inside, he pries up a small cylindrical object that glows red as he lifts it from its hidden spot. He fiddles with it to shut it off and the lights dim; it was the piece of technology keeping the datapads in and disrupting radios signals from going out. Getting to his feet, McCree scrambles to the closet, nearly dodging another oncoming arrow through a different window, and grabs his duffel bag. He doesn't miss the one near his bed either and throws his disruptor inside, quickly searching for something else. Behind him he can hear Genji kicking the front door open, and McCree lets him as he digs around for a flashbang. It doesn’t take him long to open it from the sounds, one more firm kick and he can hear Genji scramble up off the ground to run outside.

“Hanzo!” He shouts, followed by the sharp sound of another arrow lodging itself into the door of the shack. It’s making that high pitched ring again.

McCree growls low in his throat and hesitates. He doesn't want to get too close, one leg is already burning he doesn't need another or something worse. The arrows stuck in him are searing, tearing at his muscles with each movement as the blood soaks into his slacks. He doesn't want to take them out quite yet, not until he's in a better position to take care of them. It'll slow his escape, but he'll deal with it. He's dealt with worse.

In for three, hold for one, out for five. McCree focuses.

Footsteps crunch softly over freshly fallen snow, one set. Not closer or farther but to circle around, he wants a better angle of the door. Heavy, pained breaths fall from chapped lips further from the footsteps. Genji curses quietly, but he isn't sure if it's about the situation or his wrist; both, maybe. The wind picks up, rustling the trees, dusting the loose snow and making it dance. Hanzo takes that moment of wind change to move more boldly and McCree waits. The ringing has stopped.

Hanzo fires an arrow too late, narrowly missing McCree as he dashes out the door. He knocks another one quickly, the wood of the shaft hitting the finely crafted wood of the bow. It's quick, his movement, but measured and calculated and not at all panicked. He takes his time lining the shot and McCree takes advantage of his moment of weakness as he runs around him. 

McCree tosses the flashbang up, arching it just so. He counts the seconds; one, two -- Hanzo lets the arrow go and it grazes him in the left shoulder -- three. Before Hanzo can react there's a flash of blinding light and he's rearing back, falling at the dazzling display. McCree hears Genji call for someone, both of them or maybe it's just his brother, he can't be sure with all the blood rushing through his ears, the adrenaline pumping loudly. He just keeps running, he must keep running, cover his tracks, tend to his wounds, find Gabe.

Instincts take over. McCree doesn't stop to look back, doesn't stop to catch his breath when it burns in his lungs, doesn't stop to rip the arrows from his flesh as he runs and runs and doesn't stop. Gabriel would call him an idiot for this and he'd have to agree; trusting hunters is up there on the list of stupid things Jesse McCree has done. The betrayal hurts, though he has to admit that it isn't as one-sided as he'd like. He gave the Shimadas the bare minimum when he'd promised them a gold mine’s worth of information. The look Genji gave him when he fit the puzzle together, he won't forget it. That's a whole other thing Gabriel would probably lecture him about;  _ Genji _ . McCree can smell him lingering on his belongings, in the snow and air around him. McCree can hear him in the back of his mind, the pained cry he made when he broke his wrist,  _ you aren't hunting it _ ,  _ I need you to trust me _ .

McCree stops, so suddenly that he topples forward and lands on his hands and knees, heaving in deep breath after deep breath until his lungs feel like they might collapse in on themselves. The pain of his body comes back in one massive wave, but here in the middle of the woods is nowhere to tend to them. Behind him is a trail of his own footsteps and drops of blood, easy to track by anyone with legs at this point. He wonders if they'll follow, if they're following right now, if his betrayal and his situation will fuel them. McCree hopes they don't but wouldn't blame him. He's wounded and without shelter, but he's far from easy pickings. Genji having a busted wrist while Hanzo deals with his temporary blindness certainly won't stop them either.

In for three, hold for one, out for five.

He's hyperventilating, he can feel it in his chest, the sensation tight and squeezing. This isn't how he wanted things to go, but he's an idiot for thinking it would because nothing ever does. He needs to pull it together, he has the information they need and as long as he keeps it out of their hands nothing is compromised.

Who is he trying to kid? Everything, just about, is compromised.

McCree lets out a breathy chortle high in his throat. He really fucked this one up, but he can fix it. The Shimadas still don't know how to track the harpy, they don't know his patterns, they don't know much more than they did before except an increase in their protection. They shouldn't be able to find him and if by chance they do at least they'll have a better chance of survival. Gabriel won't kill them, they aren't his target and they don't work for Talon, but he'll attack out of self defense if they do find him. McCree just needs to figure out what the hell Gabriel wants him to see here and they can leave.

It will be fine, he thinks, he  _ breathes _ . It will be fine. His heart rate slows as he focuses on the thought. He will be fine. He's been through and survived worse, McCree thinks, because he's been through the Deadlock Pack and Blackwatch and the death of a man who meant more to him than anyone he can remember. Now he's here and this is nothing new; dangerous and deadly but familiar. He will be fine.

McCree picks himself up off the ground and gathers his belongings, the two duffel bags carrying his things. He ignores the pain shooting up his leg and arm, the slight burn across his face and shoulder, the loosening grip in his chest. It's barely late morning, he has ample daylight to spend looking for shelter, albeit it temporary, before setting off to find Gabriel.

 

⭐

 

It isn't a rarity that Genji comes home a little battered sometimes, returning home from school with cuts on his knuckles and a ripe bruise on his cheek. He has a temper, they both do, but in his years Hanzo has refined his and Genji’s is left to twist and boil until it's too late. They are both, in equal measures, overly-protective of one another as well, and it led them to petty fights in their younger years. Kids who didn't think much of the Shimadas because their parents made snide remarks behind closed doors, who thought they could get away with teasing the heirs at school. Not everyone thought highly of the most important and influential family in Hanamura, but that didn't mean Genji wouldn't throw a fist or two at anyone who spoke poorly of his brother, it didn't stop Hanzo from casually threatening anyone who teased his little brother about his choice of hairstyle.

So it isn't surprising when Genji comes home with a broken wrist and a few bruises on his back shaped like large paws. They're well beyond adolescence, they're full blown hunters with many species under their belts, some hanging triumphantly from the walls. This is the best either brother has come home with, but the reasoning behind it burns.

It's the shame of it that burns hot in Genji’s cheeks, down his neck, that this is his fault.

Shimada Castle is quiet when they return home, and it stays as such while the youngest Shimada is taken to their resident doctor. There are bruises forming on his back from where McCree had knocked into him, and a nasty discoloration around his broken wrist. Physically, this is hardly anything to raise hell about. The hell raising starts at the lies McCree told here in their home and the truths that were told to Genji in the shack out West. Hanzo doesn't leave his side even after Genji is finished with the details of what happened in the wilderness. He stands at the door, arms crossed and face placid; a contrast to Genji who is all tight muscle and internal anger.

Genji did not tell Hanzo about Gabriel. He told him about Blackwatch and what tore them and, subsequently, Overwatch down leading up to the explosion at the United Nations. He told him about Talon, an organization that peaked no familiarity with him either, and their experimentations on non-humans, including the harpy. He told him how most of what he'd spent this morning talking with McCree about was likely fabricated, but eased the growing anger in Hanzo’s eyes with the promise that at the very least they knew how to protect themselves. He told him that McCree was no hunter, but following the harpy on some delusional wild chase to answers neither of them understood. But Genji did not tell Hanzo about Gabriel. Blackwatch Commander Gabriel Reyes who picked McCree up as a boy and not an asset, who gave him a choice and a home and a family, who showed him of compassion and patience and tolerance. Gabe, Boss,  _ jefe _ ; Genji did not tell Hanzo of the man McCree searches for. The harpy is nameless, Gabriel is dead, and McCree is a monster encroaching on their territory looking for something Hanzo is sure won't be found.

Genji keeps his word, though the burning sensation in his wrist begs the question why. He wishes the answer would come easily, but he's already spent the travel back overthinking it.

“What do we tell the Elders?” Genji asks when the doctor leaves the room.

A silence settles in the room. Hanzo unfolds his arms and heaves a quiet sigh, moving towards Genji.

“Everything you told me,” is his answer, voice much softer than his brother’s. That doesn't mean he's any less pissed about the situation than Genji is, but raising his voice will only raise tempers that need cooling. “We will raise awareness within the clan and other hunters about McCree. He won't be leaving Japan.”

Genji scowls. They'll hunt him down like a dog, kill him for betraying the Shimada clan. He doesn't want that, but saying that aloud would be traitorous in its own right. That doesn't mean he isn't angry at McCree, he has every right to be, but he doesn't think it warrants death. He doesn't  _ want  _ it to warrant death.

On the one hand, he sees a man grieving. He sees what he wants to help him cope with the loss of someone important to him. The body might be Gabriel’s but the mind is gone, he thinks. But eventually McCree needs to see the light of day and realize that he's chasing after nothing.

On the other hand, he deceived them, used them for what they had to offer to meet his own gain. Nothing they've never done, but it's a rare occurance someone manages to do the same to them and succeed. And  _ live _ .

It's more than that though, more personal than a short-sighted betrayal to the Shimada clan. He trusted McCree, for what that was worth, despite knowing exactly what and who he was. Even as he scoured through the videos, watching McCree grow, he felt…

“Genji?” Hanzo’s voice shakes him.

He blinks up at him, away from his bandaged wrist. The nanobots are starting to tingle.

“I want to ask them about Talon,” he says decidedly.

That earns him a curious look. “What for? If I don't have the records for it, why would they know?”

“I just want to ask,” Genji huffs a sigh.

“You believe what he said about them?”

“What's there not to believe? They're dangerous if what he says holds even an ounce of truth to it.” He fidgets on the table he's sitting on. “Could you imagine an entire army of those creatures? Or even just a handful of harpies - it's taken us six years to even get this far and we're the best hunters in Japan.”

It's Hanzo’s turn to frown. “Are you really taking what he said into consideration? I'm wary about what he supposedly said was truth in his intel, but this Talon business? It's absurd.”

“Is it?”

“For what purpose would anyone have creating a beast of a thing like that? It's out of control.”

“But what if there's more to it?”

“Genji, listen to yourself.” Hanzo’s voice hardens, as does his gaze at his brother. “You're talking about nonsense fed to you by a  _ werewolf _ . To whom you believe because you got attached like I said not --”

“I'm not.” Hanzo opens his mouth to argue and Genji’s temper flares, stoked by this morning’s botched mission. He slams his uninjured hand on the table. “I'm  _ not _ !”

They sit in silence for a time. Genji knows he's wrong, he is --  _ was _ , maybe -- attached. He's lashing out because it hurts, and it isn't Hanzo’s fault, he warned him. It isn't fair to either of them. Hanzo clicks his tongue, says something about them getting a move on, the Elders are expecting them but the blood is rushing too loudly in his ears.

“I'm sorry,” Genji says, pressing the heel of his left hand against his head. Softer, he repeats himself, “I'm sorry.”

Hanzo pauses in his steps before speaking, turning to look at Genji over his shoulder. “It's alright.”

“It isn't,” he bends over, resting his forehead on his knees. There's a small chuckle in his voice as he adds, “I know you want to say ‘I told you so’ and rub it in my face.”

Hanzo snorts, shaking his head with the whisper of a grin on his face. “Maybe later. I was worried this morning.”

“Sorry.”

He means it. It's a challenge to make Hanzo worry, a challenge Genji doesn't readily accept often, and most certainly not on purpose.

“Enough apologies,” Hanzo shakes his head again, motioning for Genji this time. “The Elders are expecting us.”

 

Inside the Sanctuary’s main building is a crescent shaped hall. The seven of them are seated around the outer curvature of it, the leader situated in the middle as if he's got any more leeway than the rest of them. The room is dimly lit with small electric lanterns hanging from the ceiling in even spaces, the red tinted paper casting a red glow on the already dark wood of the building. It smells of incense, different every time Genji has been inside, and today it is a heavy scented lavender blend. It's all very calming which, on better days, Genji would make light of. It's almost never calming nor pleasant when he arrives.

Elder Yori is furious with them, but he takes it out entirely on Genji because it was his idea to bring in a foreigner, a stranger, his idea to strike a deal for information that fell flat, his idea to invite a former Overwatch agent, a werewolf, a monster into their home. His idea, and Genji knows it so when Hanzo moves to his defense he only puts up a hand to silence him. It's appreciated, but the Elder is right, for once. His idea, his fault. Better Genji than Hanzo, he thinks.

It's the same spiel. Hanzo reign your brother in, Genji stop embarrassing the clan, if you weren't such a good and valuable hunter Genji, you have to fix this before it hits the news media Hanzo. Elder Yori talks as if he has leverage, because he's older and worked under their father so he must know better than anyone, better than his own children, what's best for the clan. Hanzo has learned to take it in stride, which is to say not at all and propose his method of doing things until the council gets tired of hearing about it. Genji is obnoxious about it, tends to lash out in the middle of meetings and very vocally voice his concern.

This is one of those times, though today Genji feels like having tact.

“Talon.” He begins, taking a step so that he's equal with his brother. “Have you heard of them?”

Elder Yori sits back a little in his chair, back straight. He raises an eyebrow to Genji. “Yes. They were quite at large during the Omnic War. What of them?”

“Did we ever have dealings with them? Did Father?”

“No.” It's answered too quickly, too dismissively as Elder Yori waves a hand at him. “Besides, they've all but practically died out.”

“Have they?” Genji presses. “They seemed pretty prominent in the recordings.”

Yori chuckles darkly. “And you believe the monster’s fabrications?”

Genji opens his mouth to argue, but Hanzo is there putting a hand on his shoulder to quiet him before he speaks up.

“It was worth asking should it be looked into. Clearly they're irrelevant. We will start fresh immediately with a new plan, and I will fix this mistake.”

Perhaps it’s the way Hanzo says it, though Genji knows he means no ill-will towards him, doesn’t mean to chastise but sometimes it happens and he needs to remind him that they’re twenty-six and twenty-eight respectively, not  _ six  _ and  _ eight _ , that he can fix his own mistakes as an adult. Whatever it is, the idea comes to him like a brick to the head, and he blurts it out as such, without grace but full of potential.

“Trailing the werewolf.” Genji interjects and it earns him a look from his brother. “It's been proving difficult to trail the harpy, so why not track something we know we can hunt easily?”

The room falls silence, a few of the other Elders on the council murmur quietly to one another. It's a good idea, even Elder Yori says so with a begrudging tone. Hanzo nods to Genji then turns to bow to the Elders. The other follows suit as well as the Elders, all standing and bowing low as the brothers leave.

When they're outside in the mid-afternoon sun, walking down the stone path leading back to the main house, Hanzo stops Genji with a gentle hand around his arm.

“What was that about?”

“What was what?” Genji feigns ignorance poorly to his brother. Hanzo gives him a knowing look, and so he lowers his voice to answer truthfully, “You know they're lying to us, don't you? About Talon.”

“Why would they?”

Sometimes Genji forgets they were groomed for different purposes in life. He's the youngest so he had more leeway during Father’s reign, had the easy life of studying to be a hunter and the ways of negotiation before going out and doing what he wished without the weight on his shoulders that he's a Shimada. And perhaps that wasn't fair, it had never been fair, because Hanzo carries the weight for both of them. He actually listens to the Elders when they talk.

“Talon may not exist, to our knowledge, in Japan, but I'll eat my goddamn Pachimari collection if they were telling us the truth in there,” Genji scoffs, jabbing a thumb behind him, in the direction of the valley. 

Hanzo hesitates a moment. “They would tell us if they did. If they're as dangerous as they've been told to be, it would be in everyone’s best interest if we knew. That we don't should be good news.”

Genji clicks his tongue. “Whatever. Let's just sift through the garbage McCree left us.”

They start to walk again while Hanzo adds, “I'll send out scouting parties to find the werewolf’s trail. That was a good idea, by the way. Following it instead of the harpy.”

An affirmative hum is all Genji offers. He pretends he suggested it for professional reasons, and it isn't like he didn't. Follow the werewolf, he’ll eventually lead them to the real target. Hanzo has every intention of killing them both, he can see it in his greedy stare. Genji wishes he could say the same, but his suggestion is partially personal.

“Genji.” He hears Hanzo behind him and he stops to turn around. “You made a mistake.”

He doesn't say it like he's scolding him, like it's the worse thing he's ever done -- it most certainly isn't, but it's up there on the list -- but like the way Father used to say it. Mistakes are what make us human, he used to say, what gives us soul. It's how we learn, it's okay. Hanzo doesn't say it all, but it's in the softness of his gaze.

In a split second, there's a glint of amusement as he adds, “But I told you so.”

Genji lets out an almost surprises bubble of laughter. It helps release a bit of the tension in his shoulders, but it doesn't still the heaviness in his heart.

 

It's a week before they find anything. Hanzo puts out everyone who isn't busy with something else on duty to look for McCree. Genji sulks by trying not to sulk, but Hanzo can tell as always. He can't figure out why, but he can guess. Asking is out of the question. Ever since he came home, he's been in a less than pleasurable mood. Cranky, if he had to give it a name, but the description feels weird on his tongue. Hanzo gives him his space and only when Genji comes to him for something does he pry, though he doesn't get much from him. But he can guess.

It's McCree. Genji has a knack for getting attached too quickly to people he probably shouldn't. He doesn't blame him, he finds charm in weird places like diamonds in the rough, and Hanzo can hardly understand it. He didn't spend a lot of time with him while he was here, if any beyond speaking business with him, so it comes as no surprise that Hanzo doesn't understand it. A part of him feels like he shouldn't be surprised, Genji did spend the whole week with him. He'd heard from the help who liked to gossip ceaselessly that they seemed to be getting along quite nicely, questions of who he was, was he Genji’s new  _ thing _ \-- to which Hanzo even now wrinkles his nose almost prudishly -- because when he decided to loosen the hold on his proverbial leash they were inseparable. Hanzo likes to think it's because Genji was being dutiful, and maybe he was, a little, but he knows his brother and it certainly wasn't all for the sake of keeping an eye on him.

What is so mind boggling to Hanzo is why, with the fresh knowledge of what he is coming to light, is Genji still sulking. They don't have the concrete evidence of what they'd been told, McCree reportedly destroyed the data stick and ran off with the datapads. Fat chance in trying to not only trail the werewolf but also his information. He believes Genji, but Hanzo wouldn't mind seeing what's on the datapads himself. He can't help but wonder if he saw something in the records that's making him act this way.

“Genji,” Hanzo announces his entry with just the name as he enters his brother’s room. “We found him.”

“Where?” He up in a flash, discarding his phone immediately. “When do we leave?”

“First light of dawn,” he answers, handing over the intel. “We go North.”

 

⭐

 

McCree falls asleep in a tree; he wakes up in a dusty, decrepit building with mold lining the ceiling tiles. The dirty, smudged glass of the windows barely allows the late evening setting sun to filter through, filling the room with a dim light. It smells of musk, thick, and though the warmth of this place is welcomed, the crisp fresh air feels better in his lungs. 

He does a quick look around to make sure his things are in order; his duffel bag of clothes and leisurely items is untouched and leaning against the bedpost. The peacekeeper, holster and all, are at his side, hidden beneath his serape. The duffel full of datapads is missing, both in scent and sight. In lieu of it he finds a precariously placed black feather that shines a dark purple in the golden light, right in the middle of the room on the floor. It's purposeful, he's usually careful about leaving tracks like this.

McCree picks it up and pockets it, looking out the window for something that isn't there. He travels outside to get a clearer understanding of where he is; the far outskirts of Hanamura. He can just barely see the town in the distance, the lights beginning to flicker on as the sun disappears behind the horizon. 

There's a rustling in the trees behind him, a familiar smell in the air that resembles that of death, an underlying tone of spice that is almost completely masked by everything else. McCree turns his head. Between the stark contrast of shadows in the trees, a darkness that is almost tangible, are a pair of red eyes. They're yards apart and McCree doesn't want to press his luck a second time.

It's similar to this, the time he lost his arm, where he fell asleep someplace he probably shouldn't have and has woken up someplace else. It happens rarely, but when it does it gives him hope, keeps him going. The last time it happened he got a little over eager. Gabriel is in a tree several yards off and McCree goes to him, speaks to him, gets too close to him. He lashes out, cuts him right down the arm from elbow to wrist and flies off in a rapturous cry. 

It's a rarity that Gabriel does this often. McCree thinks it's an apology and a scolding all in one. If anyone has the datapads, it's him, destroyed somewhere. He tilts his hat in his direction and gets nothing in return. They stare at each other for a while until the sun’s last rays brighten a sliver of the low lying sky and McCree decides to go back inside and gather his things. They'll travel by nightfall, as always.

His wounds sting. The patch up job of a fishhook and medical line he uses liberally, a single gift from Angela, does what it can to pull the skin together. The lingering silver pulses with every movement of his leg, as he hauls the one duffel bag over his shoulder, serving as a reminder. The pain on his face is gone and he wonders if there's a small scar across the side of his cheek.

When McCree heads back out of the broken building, Gabriel has moved further away but stares at him just the same. He tilts his hat in quiet recognition. The harpy moves with the shadows, as the shadows, quiet as air as he takes to the skies, low lying so he doesn't catch the attention of greedy eyes.

And McCree follows. They go North.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone has had a wonderful holiday season, and a happy new year! ❤
> 
> Thank you for everyone's continued patience and generous compliments, they're both very much appreciated ❤ feel free to hit me up on madamerioulette@tumblr


	6. A Secret In The Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a trap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New tags added going forward -- body horror

The landscape North of Hanamura is perilous, littered with valleys and cliffsides that end in steep dives into thick patches of trees. Not many go North, there isn't much outside of the occasional hunt or two but even creatures know better than to traverse a hilly landscape such as this. In the winter the slopes are slippery with ice and one wrong move and a whole hillside might collapse. During the summer, in the rainy season, the slimy mud is just as bad and makes tracking easy for hunters, worrisome for beasts and the like. The Shimada brothers get a job maybe once a year to come up into the foggy cliffs, but McCree and his feathered allie Gabriel are bringing them far further than they've ever travelled before.

It's mid-afternoon when they near the halfway point. The weather is on their side, slightly overcast but not a single powder of fresh snow to cover the boot tracks they've been following. It's not without effort that they follow, it's clear that McCree is making an effort to cover his tracks, but sometimes they'll find a smudge of ash in the snow, the smell almost lingering as a sign that they're close behind, a burnt circle in a tree trunk where the cigarillo was snubbed out. There's a snagged piece of the old red serape he wears clinging desperately to a bush, a small unravelled thread waving in the wind. It isn't easy, tracking a mark never is, but it's easier than tracking the harpy who seems almost tedious in the way he hides his tracks. There are no feathers on the ground, in the trees, caught in the bushes that surround muddled footsteps. There is nothing that would suggest the harpy being anywhere near here except for the fact his werewolf follows.

If they had known this years ago, that a wolf in man’s clothing was following their mark, they would have disposed of both. The harpy had not been with another when it attacked Hanzo, it was during the year McCree spent mourning, until he found him the next year in his home in Santa Fe. One has to wonder if he would have attacked his brother had McCree been with him. Genji wonders.

Genji has been wondering a lot in the last week. He wonders what the next step is when they find McCree, man or beast, and what he'll do should they -- and they will -- draw their weapons. He wonders if he'll be able to fight in earnest, if the vivid grainy images of a young McCree, a lost McCree, will ever stop flashing in his mind long enough to feel something other than the mix of sympathy and hot angry betrayal. It's ironic that he's still sour about a betrayal when he, in turn, did the same. But it's different, he thinks unrealistically. It isn't, not really.

They climb, the bitter wind biting at their exposed flesh and turning it red, and climb, their goal so close they can feel it in their bones, their instincts, and climb. Their muscles complain only a little; they haven't done much hunting since they met McCree two weeks ago, instead curling over intel and maps. They've done their training and meditation separately; Hanzo sets to work in the early morning before the sun and Genji chases the night until the moon starts to set. They meet to eat sometimes, a late lunch, a dinner coaxed from Hanzo as he deliberately waves takeout as he passes by his office. Information is shared and, to Genji’s misfortune, Hanzo prods because _you're sulking_ and he denies it despite the fact that he was -- is -- and knows it. It would be easier if he just told Hanzo about Gabriel, but something in the way McCree asks, how he remembers their camaraderie transform and grow between weeks and months and years of recordings, the way McCree would lose himself to reminiscing for just a moment to relive a life that is lost to him; he can't.

Genji sees himself in that moment, while McCree tells his story, the smaller details of it all when he talks a little too long about something that doesn't matter but it does to him, in his heart. Genji sees himself at the age of five at the foot of his bed with his father, begging for another story about Mother, how they met, their first date, that embarrassing story that gets Hanzo to laugh hard enough his milk came out his nose once. It's all he has of their mother because he can't remember anything but her voice, singing lullabies in the night because he'd been a fidgety and restless child. All he had were those stories from their father, fabricated or not as he liked to embellish once in awhile, and he sees himself in McCree as all he has, now, are his memories of friends and family.

Gabriel is McCree’s weakness as their late mother is to him; he won't expose it but he will profit from it.

A hand on his chest shakes him from his thoughts as he looks up to see Hanzo staring hard into the distance. He heard something, and like the unstudious brother that he is Genji was too wrapped up in himself to hear it. It doesn't matter, it happens again.

A rustle in the trees, quiet enough that it might just be the wind if it wasn't settled.

Hanzo makes a hand motion for him to flank on the left and he does so without a word, without a sound on his feet as he goes lightly across the snow. The new armor they're using is heavier and they've had only a week to get used to the feel of thin, weaved kevlar interlaced with an even thinner veil of silver chain. It's full body down to their knees, fitting snug underneath their uniforms. The armor at their wrists and legs give them extra cover, though one well-placed attack to their faces and they're done for. With their new armor sets, they must admit to feeling more comfortable should their fights dissolve into close combat. Until now, they've kept their distance, Hanzo with his arrows and Genji with his shuriken, and those are on their bodies, ready and waiting, but alongside them harnessed to their backs are their trusted swords. They're confident, it shows in Genji’s steps as he follows his brother’s instruction.

The wind picks up a little, and even as light as it is it howls quietly. Behind them, several yards off, is a steep and narrow valley lined with bristled trees. The ledge is slick with snow, wet and packed and thick, thick enough that one could easily misstep where the edge might actually be and slip. They push away from it and further into the thin lining of trees, thin enough that one more move from a creature and it would be easily spotted.

And it's in that moment that they both freeze, on the same wavelength as they are so frequently when they hunt, the same spine rattling thought piercing through them almost simultaneously. There's hardly any cover here, the valley below would have made better sense with it's thicket of trees and shadow. Up here on the ledge it's open, vulnerable to those hiding, and they realize with a sickening twist in their gut that that's the point. There aren't any hiding spots here.

The harpy isn't hiding.

In hindsight, Genji thinks, this was always a possibility. That the harpy, so elusive and careful, would know when people were following. It was easy to follow with McCree trailing along, he can't fly, and though quiet as he is, too quiet for someone his size, he is ungraceful in his steps. He's spent far too long with the guise of being just another man to warrant attention, and now that he has it, he has followers. Hunters. And the harpy would know that, _Gabriel_ would know that. He would know, after six long years of visiting every winter, that the northern parts of Hanamura are dangerous, are not conducive for most hunts. But he has leverage as an avian beast, he doesn't have to worry about the icy snow slipping up his footwork. They do, and he _knows_ that.

Genji feels his heart thunder in his throat as he looks to Hanzo, who stares back with a hardened gaze edged with worry and realization. It's a trap. He used McCree as bait.

All at once there's a noise, ear splitting and loud, a cacophony of wild, echoing screeches that seem like they come from everywhere. Genji brings a hand up to his ear, wincing as the sound pierces through the air. In the trees there is movement, a rush of wind and shadow unnaturally fast. It's in front of them, but the large mass that knocks the air right out of him and sends him head first into the snow comes from behind. Genji skids, stopping only when his middle collides with the trunk of a skinny tree, the snow shaking from the branches at the collision. He groans, lifting his head up quickly to take in the sight before him.

Towering over him is a long, bulky figure hovering not but two inches from the ground. Sharp, glinting talons trace the very top of the snow, flexing under powerful stress. The rough patch of skin reaches to mid-calf where black, almost purple feathers begin to blossom from dark brown flesh. They look waxy and shine in the light, all the way up his thighs where the feathers begin to thicken and soften, akin to fur. Up his torso, layered feathers of different textures and lengths form almost a cloak as they reach his neck, flaring out and up to frame his face or what he can see of it. Shrouded in self made shadow is his face, a strong jaw tilted up as he looks down at Genji with fiery red eyes that glow beneath the crown of feathers encasing his head. At his sides, long strong wings protrude from his arms, hands like claws, pristine and shining. They twitch and flex with purpose, waiting for the right time to strike. There's a low rumble coming from him, almost a growl but not quite, as his talons touch the snow and sink. His shadow covers Genji completely, the sun peeking from behind the clouds and outlining him in a ring of light that seems to bounce off him.

It is Gabriel, the harpy, and if Genji didn't know any better he'd say he was looking rather pleased with himself.

One sound from Hanzo that isn't breathing and he's on the move, they all are simultaneously, scrambling up from the snow, knocking an arrow, taking to the skies. Genji has a hand on his long sword, unsheathing it as the harpy swoops forward again with a force so fierce that the wind alone threatens to knock him back again. Gabriel flies up, howling angrily at the brothers as they raise arms against him.

They've fought against the harpy before; Hanzo three times, Genji twice. There are seasons when they only chase him, and seasons when he turns to fight; this season is different. Gabriel fights with vigor and purpose, beyond self defense. He led them here, something he's never done before, and that worries them. There's a focus in his highly offensive movements, a focus on Genji. And Genji keeps up with the parries, is careful of his footwork in the snow as he's pushed further into the tree lines. Neither can get a hit on him; Hanzo fires arrow after arrow from the flank and Gabriel dances in the air, twisting with the wind as his talons swipe down and grind against the metal of Genji’s sword. It's beautiful, almost, the way he moves in the air with power and grace, if only they weren't on the receiving end.

It's a careful dance between the three of them; whenever Hanzo tries to get in close, Storm Bow forgotten about in lieu of his sword, only to watch Gabriel fly out of reach, circling above them until they separate and reevaluate their plan.

“Hanzo, go deeper into the treelines,” Genji orders. “On the left.”

He gives the other a look, cocking an eyebrow. “Are you crazy?”

“He has too much of an advantage in the sky,” he explains, not bothering to take his eyes off the harpy and look to Hanzo. “If we can get him in the trees he'll have less room to move.”

“It will leave you more exposed, I’ll be too far from you.”

“That's the point.” Genji takes that moment to look over to his brother, giving him a reassuring nod that doesn't do much to reassure him in the end. “I'll be fine. Back me up from afar.”

Hanzo frowns, but returns the nod. It's worth a shot given their circumstances. He sheathes his sword and rushes off to the south side of Genji and the harpy, readying his bow as he keeps his eyes to the sky, on Gabriel.

As predicted, he swoops down like a bullet, diving towards Genji with his claws outstretched and his fangs bared. Hanzo keeps them in his sights as he moves through the trees, bow nocked and ready should Genji seem to be in any danger. Outside of fighting the harpy one on one, he handles himself just fine. The trees, as they had hoped, give the creature less maneuverability, Genji leading him through narrow paths where he has a better advantage. He's careful in his footwork; provoking him too close would spell bad news for Genji so he does what he does best in both battle and conversation; he dances.

Gabriel is the better dancer. He uses wayward branches sturdy enough to hold his weight as leverage, to push him forward, give him extra weight behind an attack that pushes Genji several feet back and then some, sliding in the snow. Hanzo’s arrows fly by; a sonar catches a tree that Genji tries to fight around but Gabriel can hear it so he diverts their steps elsewhere. A scatter arrow is thrown and Gabriel pulls back on a branch with his talons, redirecting the smaller shards towards Genji. He deflects them back, bouncing the metal off his sword with practice reflex. He swears one hits, right through the thigh but the feathers part and almost fly away into smoky wisps in the wind.

“ _Shit_ ,” Genji swears.

He takes three steps back. Gabriel takes five powerful strides forward, a long fingered hand going up. Genji puts his sword up to block the inevitable swipe that never comes. Instead the silver scrapes against the hard surface of the claws and burns into the soft flesh of his hand as he grabs the blade roughly. His left hand is quicker, grabbing Genji’s face before he can even see the blur of it rush towards him. The back of his head hits a tree trunk, bark digging and tangling into his hair, and his vision swims from the impact. Genji lets out a yelp that's muffled behind the hand, worry clawing at him as he feels the sharp nails press into the exposed skin behind his ears. There's no recovery if he cuts the flesh on their faces, their throats; whatever the sickness is will spread and kill them.

That doesn't seem to be Gabriel’s focus, not now, as he looms over him, hackles raised. This close Genji can see the details in his face behind the shadows and feathers. The smell hits him first, like rotting flesh, similar to that of his brother's wounded legs and McCree’s arm. It's hidden beneath the thick, cloak-like feathers, skin that isn't quite whole in some places, rotten away but filling with something black like tar, thick but airy in the same texture. It's prominent in his face, this close, and Genji feels like he needs to take in a breath to hold. The eyes, red pits surrounded by reflective midnight, are sunken in, weary and worn. A part of his cheekbone is missing on the right, exposing bone and the upper part of his jawbone, and light dustings of feathers encircling the outer rim of his eye socket do their best to hide it. The worst of it is around his nose, nearly cut away completely. There's a gnarled cut from the bottom of his chin up through his lips that disappears into the missing chunk of skin at his cheek, showing muscle and more teeth than usual. Genji can hardly see the man in the video recordings, a man with a kind but hardened face and soft, welcoming features. A fire burns in him as whatever afflicts him has eaten away at who he used to be.

Gabriel’s face gets right next to Genji’s, a constant low growl rumbling from his chest. It vibrates through him, through his arm and Genji can feel it, but he's too preoccupied by the frantic beating of his heart in his chest. His feet kick about a foot and a half above the ground, silver talons of his own searching for purchase and finding nothing but air. His gloved fingers dig into the meaty flesh of his arm and only sink into soft feathers and something thicker, something that has him reeling back at the feeling and stench. The rumbling becomes rhythmic, like a slow laugh in his ear.

“Keep away from Jesse.”

The words are muddled between something gurgling in his throat, hoarse and rough but they are words. Words that almost make Genji’s heart stop as he dares to slide his eyes over to meet Gabriel’s. Words that are a low, serious threat that turns Genji colder than the weather. Words that Genji didn't expect, certainly not from Gabriel.

For the first time in a long time, Genji is scared.

Hanzo’s arrow comes as a surprise, perhaps to Genji but not to the harpy as he lets go of the sword in lieu of snatching the arrow out of the air. He snaps it like a twig between his fingers, shaking away the useless bits until all he has is the sharp metal end. Genji sees the idea before the movement and he kicks his legs up to shove Gabriel away. The arrow hooks into the kevlar above his waist, tearing into it but not through it. The impact, though, almost knocks the air right out of him and will leave a bruise no doubt. The dual talons that decorate Genji’s footwear find purchase in the harpy’s gut, cutting thin stripes down his abdomen and Gabriel screeches in pain. He lets go of Genji completely and rears back, blood and something thicker, something darker dripping from the wounds.

The world seems to stop right then, as Genji gets a firmer grip on his sword and moves in to attack, as Gabriel brings both arms back, wings flaring out and claws open. There's about a foot between them, a small measly amount compared to the yards they've seen, ground to air. They'll both get hit, there's no avoiding it, but it's the closest Genji’s ever gotten and he's willing to take a blow for blow. The resolve burning in Gabriel’s eyes says the same. The Shimadas might not be his point of interest, but they are in his way.

Out of nowhere, when in fact it takes both of them a total of three blinding seconds to figure out it's most certainly from somewhere, there is a flash of dazzling light between them. Gabriel reels back, howling loudly as he pushes up through the thin layer of branches to take to the sky. At four seconds they know what it is, who it is that's shoving Genji onto the ground and putting himself between the harpy and the hunter.

McCree looks at Gabriel almost apologetically and gets an angry scream in return, the sound echoing through the pass. He's without his hat, but dons his serape heavily over his left arm, the metal arm, a glint of his gun sitting peacefully in its holster underneath it. His cowboy boots, the ones they've been trailing, sink into the snow beside Genji, and looks to be caked in blood, fresh if the way it stains the snow says anything.

Before McCree can turn to give the other his full attention, Genji kicks him at the bend in his knee from behind. As he falls, legs buckling beneath him, Genji pushes up off the ground and looks for any sign of Hanzo, finds him flitting through the trees parallel to them, following Gabriel.

Genji follows suit, sprinting to the nearest tree that looks able to hold his weight. He doesn't have time for McCree, not right now, not when they're so close. It's unfortunate that he's here, and ultimately convenient, but he won't be the distraction he's trying to be, Genji won't let him. Or, at least, that's the plan until he feels a hand on his ankle as he's halfway up the tree, pulling him down. His hands slip from the icy branches and McCree drags him back down onto the ground.

“You have a funny way of sayin’ thank you,” he drawls, grabbing Genji with his free hand at the scruff of his uniform to keep him upright.

He lets out an airy laugh, not at all amused. “And what is it that I should be thanking you for exactly, getting in my way?”

McCree huffs. “Saving your damn life?”

“I do not recall being in distress, but I suppose I should extend a thanks all the same. You know, to be polite.”

He can feel Genji flex with the effort to hoist himself up, but McCree pushes his weight against him, effectively sandwiching him into the tree instead.

“No, no enough with the kicking. I bet you kick in your sleep too.”

“How cruel,” Genji puts on a pout, pulling his arms in so that his hands are clenched beneath McCree’s, still buried in the collar of his tunic. “I have an astounding reputation for my bedside manner.”

Genji launches his fists upward, smacking painfully against McCree’s jaw and chin. He can hear his teeth clack together, maybe even biting his tongue, and he lets go of him, one hand flying to his mouth but Genji doesn't let up. He throws another punch, left hand to the right side of his cheek, and follows it up as he twists around to kick him in the head. McCree, in his defense, does not go down but he stumbles to the side, the sudden onslaught having caught him by surprise. Genji goes in for another strike, right foot swinging low off the ground and aiming for a gut shot. With ease, he catches him by the ankle and yanks upward, causing Genji to slip if McCree wasn’t still holding on.

“Was _that_ a thank you?”

“More like a fuck you.” Genji, upside down by his ankle, still manages that dangerously sharp smile of his at McCree. It doesn't reach his eyes, it's barely a smile at all, as the frustration and anger waft off him in droves. “You are in my _way_.”

“Good. You shouldn't be here,” McCree growls and Genji can almost imagine his fur rising on end. “Call off your brother and leave.”

Genji lets out a bark of a laugh. “For our _safety_ , right?”

“You're goddamn right for your safety!” McCree rattles Genji at the ankle. “You're in _his_ way.”

“ _Good_!” Genji hisses, thrashing in his hold. “Let me go!”

“What is it with you being against my savin’ your ass?”

“Is that what you're calling this? Could have fooled me; you're more being a pain in my ass.”

Genji kicks his free leg out and connects with McCree’s throat. He lets out a pained choking wheeze and unceremoniously drops the other into the snow as he reels backwards.

Several yards off, Hanzo and Gabriel face off. They're staying within the tree line, forcing the harpy to either come close or back off completely. Hanzo dons his sword, using the flat of it to block the onslaught of attacks. When he finds an opening, rarely, at the wing, a leg, once at his arm the feathers only seem to part and disperse into smog. The area where Genji managed to land a real blow, at his torso, still seeps with a dark blood red that's too thick and it paints the snow in thin lines, marring it under their swift movements. He keeps that area guarded, too cocky as he'd been to keep Genji that close and Gabriel remembers Hanzo, remembers the boy six years ago with his father. He sees the new legs, created from the same material McCree’s new arm is made from, sturdy and sharp at the points. He won't make that mistake again, so he keeps that area guarded.

Genji sees them dancing between the trees, how Gabriel edges Hanzo closer towards the cliffside to where it's open, where he'll be freer to move and attack from above. Grabbing his sword with renewed vigor, Genji dashes forward in an effort to catch up. Behind him he can hear McCree recover. He doesn't dare spare a glance behind him, eyes glued to the battle up front. When he hears the other gaining, Genji climbs into the trees, careful of the thin coating of ice around some of the branches. He has the advantage up here, despite how precarious the ice is, as it leaves McCree out of reach and a relatively straight line to Hanzo and the harpy. That doesn't stop McCree from following, but he's slower than Genji expected. No skin off his nose, he thinks, as long as he stays out of his way.

And he does, about five feet back from Genji, watching his movement patterns. He goes for the thicker branches to land on, but uses the thinner ones to keep him balanced as he hops from tree to tree. Easy, he thinks and moves to his peacekeeper.

Hanzo is starting to become aware of many things at this point. The most important being where Gabriel is pushing him to, and whenever he tries to push back, Gabriel seems three steps ahead of him. Then there's Genji, or the lack thereof, and when he finds him in the distance he also spots McCree, obnoxious outfit and all. It strikes him strangely how he seemingly saved his brother earlier, but they seem to be bickering now, struggling to get over to where he is. When the foreigner stops, almost suddenly, he seems to reach for something but Hanzo doesn't get a chance to see what it is. Gabriel swoops down, a not so gentle reminder that he needs to keep his attention undivided.

It's his gun he's going for, armed with six bullets for six shots. Genji doesn't see it, he's too focused on the task at hand, but he'll hear it soon enough. Not the subtle click of it, the safety flicked off, or McCree’s slow, even breath in as he aims, but the sound of six precision shots rapid fire. Genji feels the gravity pulling at him before he can fathom what's happened; not slipping just falling like he'd taken a misstep. When he hits the ground, however, he's joined by thick falling branches, splintered at weak joints. There’s a hole in the path he was taking, the branches he’d been planning to use, all gone. He glares over at McCree, a yard or two away, reloading his weapon with a smug expression gracing his face.

“Has anyone ever told you you're insufferable?” Genji grimaces, picking himself up off the ground quickly.

“Not lately, no.”

“That should be rectified.”

Genji tosses his shuriken at McCree, three sharp metal discs slicing through the air like butter. He blocks them easily with his metal arm, moving it in front of his face to guard it. They bounce right off and it's one second longer, a second too late, that McCree realizes that was a distraction. He wonders if he'll ever remember that sooner, that Genji’s style is made up of distractions, and not when Genji’s already done the distracting and is two inches from his face, hitting him the throat with the flat of his arm for the second time that afternoon. It's met with full force this time around and has McCree falling backwards, clutching at his throat as he chokes on a whine.

The wind changes, a static in the air that makes it feel charged, a powerful presence that is almost palpable. It's the same feeling McCree had when he watched the brothers train at their home, an otherworldly thing that almost doesn't make sense, at least not to those who are outside the Clan. Genji feels it, but pays it no mind, his attention fully on McCree who is gasping on the ground. It's coming from Hanzo, sword shining with a reflection of something that isn't there as he swings it at the harpy’s legs. He snatches it in his claws and pulls upward, almost taking the hunter with him until he's shaken off his weapon. It's no matter, he thinks, he still has the Storm Bow. The wind doesn't die down, in fact it picks up, and the tattoo on Genji’s back and Hanzo’s arm itch, _crawl_.

“Stay _out_ of our way,” Genji hisses, pressing the heel of his boot against McCree’s throat. The playfulness is gone from his voice, replaced by a hardness McCree’s never heard before. “I do not want to hurt you, but you are really starting to press your luck.”

Arrows are prepped and aimed and shot into the air, through feathers that are there one second and gone the next. Hanzo’s running out of them, not that that's an issue either. The bow is strong, sturdy and thick carved from the best material and crafted by the best weaponsmith in Japan, imbued with enchantments; it's just as much a weapon on its own without arrows. And Hanzo puts the strength needed behind it, using it like a sword but a blunt, bludgeoning object. Against the harpy, however, it is as useful as the sharpest of their blades. Gabriel shoves, prods, pushes Hanzo back to the slippery slopes of the cliffside where the snow begins to slip away from the battle.

“I know what Gabriel was to you,” he lowers his voice and the wind almost takes it away. “I understand --”

“You understand?” McCree sneers, voice rough.

Genji sheathes his sword into the snow beside his head, taking a few strands of hair with it. A few breathes more and he would've cut his cheek.

“No more games.” He says it like a finality. “Get out of Japan, or you will --”

It's out of the corner of his eye that Genji sees it, sees Hanzo and Gabriel dangerously close to the ledge. He can see the way the harpy moves, the motive in his motions, and Genji’s not sure if Hanzo can see it too or if he's too preoccupied with the battle the notice. It doesn't matter.

Genji is pushing away from McCree in an instant, dashing away towards Hanzo. He forgets his sword, he forgets McCree, he forgets the tingling sensation in his back as his vision tunnels.

This is what it would be like, he thinks, if he'd been there six years ago with Hanzo and their father. He'd see it, maybe, the harpy. Or maybe not, they were younger then, he was less aware and treated every hunt as an excursion, like something that would be given to him because of his name. But Genji likes to think that this is what it would've been like, to see the harpy come after Hanzo, talons spread and aiming towards his legs, ready to shred through the flesh and tendons and muscle.

Except at this moment, Gabriel is aiming for something different. For the valley below, where the cliffside is steep and the trees stand like pointed daggers from the ground. Genji can see it, Hanzo is two more stumbling steps away, but he can make it, he has to make it because he refuses to relive this mistake again.

He makes it.

Hanzo is dazed for a couple moments as he's shoved away, falling into the wet, packed snow that begins to seep into his clothes. His bow clatters away from him, just a few feet, but he hadn't been ready for the harsh colliding force on his left. He thinks, for a moment, that it's McCree meddling again as he's been so keen on doing today, but he sees him in between the tree lines, the red of his serape and Genji’s sword sticking from the ground and -- Genji.

_Genji_.

The harpy screeches almost victoriously above them, talons viciously attempting to dig into Genji’s undersuit as he carries him up and up and out over the valley. He's tearing through his uniform at the shoulders, not entirely searching for skin so much as he is for purchase on the flailing body below. Genji’s reaching for his short sword, looking up with wide, scared eyes as he realizes what he's got himself into. Gabriel looks right into them, red eyes searing into those of amber. He looks wild here, not at all the composed and in control being who warned him earlier; the shadow encompassing his face is spreading, as are his feathers. They truly are a cloak now, rogue feathers wisping away into the air, into more shadow. He's never seen anything like this, and though they've never fought another harpy outside this one, he’s sure whatever it is that's happening is unnatural. Maybe McCree had some value to what he was saying.

That's the last regretful thought Genji has before Gabriel bends his knees to hoist him up, only to throw him down into the valley. There's a lot of noise, a white noise and a ringing in his ears as the wind rushes by. A faint shout catches his attention to the cliffside and he sees Hanzo, helpless and shouting words he can't hear quite clearly. But it's okay, he wants to say, it's okay. Behind him is a wolf and it takes Genji a moment to realize it's McCree, large in size, three legs bounding through the snow towards Hanzo. For a moment his heart skips a beat as he wonders if this was planned, if he'll push Hanzo off anyway and get rid of the infamous Shimada brothers for good. But he passes Hanzo, doesn't pay him even a passing glance.

And McCree jumps. Leaps is more like it, at Genji, _to_ Genji. He has to split his attention between the giant brown wolf flying at him and Hanzo, who is knocking his bow but is unsure who to aim at. His eyes stay on McCree, weapon barely lifted as he attempts to assess who the bigger threat is. The harpy above them is screaming, but it sounds painful, clawed fingers digging into his scalp and feathers fluttering off in droves, disappearing into smoke. It's the last thing Genji sees of Gabriel before McCree collides into him, a mass of fur pressing itself against him.

The motion is awkward a moment as McCree tries to get a firm grip on Genji before flipping them in the air so that he's snug against his chest and McCree is falling back. He can't get a good view of Hanzo, but he doubts he'll fire his arrow now, not with him in McCree’s hold. The harpy, though, is still above making one hell of a racket, a symphony of shrill cries that echo down even into the valley. The valley that is rapidly approaching them, Genji can see the line of trees starting to even out with his vision, closer and closer until he hears the first snap of branches and twigs breaking against the wolf’s form. He shuts his eyes, gloved fingers tangling in the fur for some kind of stability for when they land. It won’t be pretty or graceful and Genji, in a passing thought, wonders if McCree will be okay falling from this height.

There’s nothing to break their fall but snow and it plumes upwards into powder and dust when McCree hits it like a rock. They bounce once and slide the rest of the way until momentum eventually leaves them halted in the thicket of naked trees.

Above them, Hanzo yells. He yells something Genji can’t make out but afterwards his tattoo tingles against his skin and a white noise fills his ears, loud static and, somewhere in between it all, he swears he hears a dull roar like a train passing by. His eyes are still shut, heart clamoring in his throat as it beats like a caged bird. There’s too much noise; Hanzo, the strange electricity in the air, the harpy who sounds enraged and almost harmonizes with everything else as it lets out one last screeching howl into the cloudy afternoon sky before the sound of powerful wings take it away, a gust of black shadow and feathers left in his wake.

And then nothing. No noise, save for the low, beating heart that thumps against his ear. McCree’s, he realizes dumbly, but he doesn’t dare to move. He’s breathing, and that’s enough. Genji eventually starts to breath with him and recognizes the rhythm that starts to ebb its way into their lungs.

In for three, and the cold air burns. Hold for one, and it starts to warm. Out for five, and it feels like more air leaves him than what he took in.

Again.

And again, and again until Genji stops shaking in a way he hadn’t realized and McCree starts to shift beneath him. He goes to move away from him but the giant paw around him won’t allow it, cradled to his chest like a child. Genji is small against McCree when he isn’t a wolf, but he practically dwarfs him in size by almost double like this. He _feels_ small as the other rolls over, bracing himself on only half his arm. The fur hasn’t quite grown in, he notices, and it’s left a paled scar around the joint. McCree makes a sound akin to a wheeze, like moving hurts, but he does his best to get onto his feet, knees bent, he’s crouched forward so Genji is only barely dangling off the ground. He sets him down gently, feet sinking into the soft snow, and when he is sure the other is stable enough to stand on his own he finally uncurls his arm from around his waist. Genji looks up at him with wide eyes as McCree takes a step back.

“You…” he starts and stops, his throat dry to the bone. Genji swallows, starts again, “You saved me.”

It’s a whisper on his lips but McCree hears it, ears twitching and folding back, up again and turning.

“ _Genji_!” Hanzo’s voice is hoarse and cracks, but it isn’t due to the cold air filling his lungs as he shouts his brother’s name into the valley.

Genji finds his voice, head snapping up to look at the cliffside. Hanzo is a silhouette against the cloudy skies, dark ponytail waving in the wind. “I’m here!” He hopes his voice carries, the silence is so loud in his ears his voice sounds muted. “I’m alright!”

The silhouette drops to the ground and Hanzo bows his head, in thanks most likely, a short prayer to the gods before he replies, “Stay there!”

He’s gone, back into the tree line to retrieve Genji’s things, leaving the hunter and the wolf alone in the valley once more. Genji shifts his attention back to McCree, who in turn is watching him very carefully. There is a weight to his presence now, to his words spoken a week ago as he tried to explain his disposition, to the words spoken not but five minutes ago. He isn’t there to hurt them, he doesn’t want to hurt them, this much Genji finds to be true.

No one jumps off a cliff to save the life of a man fit to kill them because it’s fun. That doesn’t seem like McCree’s brand.

His brand is something else, something that changes every time they meet. He’s a wolf, wounded and alone in the dead of winter under the decaying trunk of a tree, hollowed and long forgotten. He’s a stranger waltzing into Hanamura, foreign clothes and foreign words, attracting attention but not the kind he doesn’t seek. He’s desperate, asking for help in places that don’t help people like him, but he’s warm and hospitable and civil with a heart and soul like nothing he’s ever seen. He’s a lying rat, still desperate and lost and no longer warm, but empathetic, sympathetic, shaking something familiar in Genji.

He’s here.

McCree moves and lets out a low, quiet whine, ears pinned back against his head as he tries to settle against a thick tree trunk. Genji makes an uncalculated step forward and the wolf’s whine morphs into a warning growl. They’re still on thin ice with one another, both in the way of what the other seeks and, in the same breath, looking to keep them out of trouble from their allies. Genji takes another step forward, this one slower, with his hands up and raised in silent submission.

“Are you hurt?”

McCree can’t answer in this form, but he does huff loudly and offers Genji a look as if to say _what kind of question is that_? A dumb one, he supposes, given the fall he took. He sees no blood painting the snow, a good sign, but that doesn’t mean nothing is wrong internally. A broken bone or several, perhaps, bruising most likely on naked skin. And Genji? He’d be a broken mess at best. Again, the thought passes through him that he saved him, snatched him right out of the air and took a fall that might have killed him.

“I --” he starts to apologize and realizes that’s wrong. “Thank you.”

McCree looks at him a moment, eyes shining like moons even in the middle of the afternoon and a sun too clouded to offer a reflection that bright. Slowly, carefully, he bows forward on his one front paw and, still holding eye contact, pushes his black, wet nose against Genji gently. He does it again, and once more like he’s nudging him out of question.

“I am not hurt.” Genji says, wondering if that’s what he’s doing, asking him in turn if he’s hurt. He swallows roughly and adds, “Your suggestion on armor was… correct.”

Though his uniform was now trashed, his skin was without cuts and gashes. The undersuit might need mending, the claws had started to scratch through just a bit, but otherwise the worse pain he felt were bruises beginning to blossom due to collisions and earlier fighting. McCree finds that, and whatever he smells, a good enough answer and even wags his tail a little, ears twitching upward. Genji curiously wonders if those are purposeful movements, or reactions he can’t control. McCree doesn't move away afterwards but nudges closer, slowly baring his teeth a little as he opens his mouth. He catches a loose part of Genji’s tunic and tugs gently.

“I don't understand.”

McCree chuffs, leaving a wet spot on the other’s clothes, and backs up a little. Gingerly he turns, the movement stiff, and walks a little in a specific direction before turning back to Genji, head tilting.

“You want me to follow?” He asks and McCree bows his head in response. “I have to wait for Hanzo, he will worry.”

He chuffs again and shakes his head, stopping abruptly as his muscles tense against his back and lets out a soft whine.

“You shouldn't be moving anyway, something could be broken.” Or a few somethings if he was being realistic.

The concern sounds weird in his voice when not twenty minutes ago he'd punched him in the throat and threatened his life. He's sure McCree finds it just as odd, but doesn't make any motion about it, just plops down in the snow with a gruff sigh. No argument then, which meant he knew something must be broken. It also meant McCree most likely wouldn't be shifting any time soon; he can only imagine the pain of resetting broken bones from one form to the next.

“What is it you want to show me?” He asks after a while, kneeling next to McCree.

It takes a moment for him to come up with a nonverbal response that makes sense and lifts his one front paw to press against the other’s footwear, the soft pads of his feet touching the two protruding claws. Genji’s brows furrow in confusion.

“What about my foot?”

McCree growls quietly and presses harder on the silver talons, emphasising that part in particular.

“Talons -- ah, Talon?” His brows knit further and his lips sink into a frown. “What about Talon?”

The wolf lifts his head up and looks in the same direction as before, deeper into the valley where the trees grow thicker and the cliffs steeper. Genji opens his mouth to protest, but shuts it after a second thought. No one comes up this way, not to hunt, not for anything, so who is to say Talon isn’t up here, hiding away in the mountain pass like the cowards they keep coming off to be. There’s the argument that they would know, that no big organization comes through Hanamura without the Shimada Clan knowing, without one of their many informants knowing, but Genji remembers the dismissive attitude of Elder Yori. Looks like he won’t need to eat his Pachimari collection after all.

“Alive?”

McCree makes a noise akin to a laugh, almost smiles as his eyes shine with confidence. A no, then. But what are they doing here, then? Where were they going? What purpose would they have to come up here; there are no facilities, no buildings, no towns deserted or otherwise. Genji wants to ask, but conversation is difficult enough already with McCree’s lack of speech. As it is, it’s starting to feel like a twistedly dark episode of _Lassie_. He’ll have to wait and, if they're lucky, it won't be long.

“Genji!” Hanzo’s voice carries between the trees. He's running through the snow as best he can, ankle deep in it. Around his waist is Genji’s forgotten sword, in his right hand McCree’s serape folded over nondescript items. He drops the items in hand unceremoniously as he spots Genji, a metal arm spilling from the red accessory. “Brother!”

Genji gets up from his crouched spot near McCree to turn around to see Hanzo running towards him. The left sleeve of his uniform is torn to shreds, thin stripes of cloth barely hanging on to what’s left. For a horrifying moment Genji thinks he might be injured, but there's no blood, only cloth and the sight of Hanzo’s tattoo on an unwounded arm between the sleeve of the protective undershirt and his gauntlets.

“Hanzo, are you --” He doesn't get a chance to finish.

Hanzo’s arms are wrapped around him in an instant, pulling him into a tight hug. It takes Genji by surprise for a moment and he’s standing in the ankle deep snow stunned into a standstill before he’s hugging back, a comforting and light gesture in comparison to the white knuckle grip Hanzo has on him.

“You’re an idiot,” he scolds into Genji’s shoulder, in their mother tongue, the anger of his words only burning skin deep. “Don’t you _ever_ do something as reckless as that again.”

“Reckless, hm,” Genji says lightly, patting Hanzo between his shoulderblades. “Says the one who hadn’t been watching his footing.”

Hanzo opens his mouth for a rebuttal but closes it, finding no excuses. Whether he had or hadn't isn't the question, he'd been heading towards the cliff and gave no signal of escape.

“I'm fine,” Genji lowers his voice and his tone to something softer. “I promise. Now what happened to your arm?”

“Later.” Hanzo pushes away from him, glancing at his own shredded clothes hanging off his arm, the tattoo quiet against his skin. “For now….”

He looks over Genji’s shoulder to McCree, who has seemingly kept to himself during their conversation. He's lying in the snow on his stomach, tense as it seems every breath he takes in too deeply seems to hurt something unseeable. Hanzo moves behind him to pick up his serape he'd dropped earlier, carrying his prosthetic, jingling boots, and gun holster inside the folded cloth. Approaching McCree with caution, he drops it all unceremoniously in front of him. The wolf’s ears perk up, head lifted and body tense, ready to run as he's in no mood, nor in any good health to fight, but Hanzo takes a step back afterwards, conceding.

“Your things, and your life for saving my brother’s” he explains in English, not forgetting to add, “For today.”

It's honorable, as is with all things concerning Hanzo, but it still surprises Genji if only a little. It's as much of a thank you as he's going to get. McCree’s ears fall back as he leans over to sniff at his items, then looks to Genji expectantly.

“He wants to show us something,” Genji puts a gentle hand on the other’s shoulder. “Talon related.”

The sigh that leaves Hanzo is expected, as is the exasperated look in his eyes when he turns to look at him. “Genji….”

“You think it's a trap.” They switch to Japanese again.

“Of course it's a trap.”

Genji clicks his tongue, mimicking, “Of course it's a trap…. He saves my life but he’ll lead us healthy and able-bodied to a trap?”

Hanzo frowns, turns his attention back to McCree with narrowed, suspicious eyes. In English he asks, “Is it far?”

The wolf gingerly picks himself up and doesn’t bother to shake the clinging snow from his fur; it looked painful the last time. He does, instead, shake his head as best he can and points in the same direction as earlier, through the narrowing path of the valley and into where the trees get thicker. If anything, it would be difficult for the harpy to get at them should he return. Hanzo thinks on it quietly and to himself as Genji watches between him and McCree, who is trying to catch his attention with his eyes. It’s odd not to know what he’s thinking, especially when reading people is something Genji likes to pride himself on, but in this form there’s almost a wall between them. His eyes aren’t empty, just different.

Amongst the books he’s read, not as many as Hanzo but still plentiful as he is knowledgeable about his contracts, he remembers reading theories on werewolves. Many believe that in the case of lycanthropy, whether contracted or born into it, there is a second soul, something wilder and unseen until the moon swells full and beckons to their inner demons. Some talk as if the wolf is a separate being altogether. Genji, until now, has never thought much about this but looking at McCree, into his pale, shining eyes, he thinks he’s looking at something else besides McCree despite the fact that he is in full control.

“Alright,” Hanzo says, so suddenly that it visibly shakes Genji from his reverie. “We will go.”

He offers McCree a hard look as a silent warning. The wolf merely shrugs a little before bowing his head down low to grab his things wrapped in the serape between his teeth. Hanzo hands Genji his sword, who sheathes it away, and follows as McCree begins to walk towards their destination.

It takes the better part of the late afternoon to get there, through thickets of trees and snow that’s built up to the knees and slopes down again as the valley wanes. The sun stays hidden behind the misty clouds above, the weather colder for it, and the wind howls disparagingly in the wind tunnel of the V-shaped terrain. Hanzo, despite the tear in his tunic, keeps his bow in one hand, stance ready for any sign of treachery as they follow McCree, whereas Genji has both arms huddled around himself, desperately rubbing the naked skin of his arms to keep warm. He’s long since disposed of the wrecked tunic, leaving his torso clothed in only the top half of their kevlar uniform. McCree seems unfazed by the snow that clings to his fur or the cold wind that ruffles it, but every so often seems to stop and lean against a tree for a moment or two to catch himself. Hanzo doesn’t say anything about it, only watches as he takes a few deep breathes before trudging forward through the snow. Eventually, they come to a cave entrance in the cliffside, large enough for one person to enter at a time but small enough that it could go unnoticed, unimportant. McCree starts to go inside, ducking his head a little as he squeezes the mass of his body and fur into the small opening before Hanzo makes a noise in his throat.

“This is the place?” He asks, eyeing it with disdain. “You are sure?”

McCree backpedals a little to look at Hanzo, then back at Genji behind him. He nods towards the cave, chuffing softly. Hanzo follows his gaze behind him to give Genji another exasperated look, and it’s returned tenfold.

“Look, I don’t care if there is nothing but bat shit in there, I’m fucking _cold_.” He fidgets, glaring at his brother.

They enter, McCree first and he leaves a divot in the snow that the brothers follow into, making more room than there was previously. Eventually the snow melts away into stone, and then metal that chinks against the metal plating on the bottom of their boots. They both look down, curious, and then up at the door made of the same material that McCree is uselessly pawing at. That's never been here before, at least not to their knowledge.

“What is this?” Hanzo frowns at the interior of the cave, one hand moving to touch the walls.

“Not bats…” Genji offers with a small, but meaningless smile.

He goes to the door, closed but unlocked if the smashed key panel next to it is any indication. The wall holding it is a semi-circle, molded to the cave that, when Hanzo looks at it closer, seems to be man made after a certain point. The door is rectangular, ordinary, but thick as Genji slips his fingers into the crack of it where McCree is pawing and pulls. As it scrapes against the bottom against better wishes, they can see the lining of silver that patterns through it; McCree snubs his nose at it as he patiently waits for it to be opened.

It's not any warmer inside as it was outside, but at least the sheer winds aren't nipping at them. The interior of it is dark before they enter, and when they do they trigger automated lights that flicker on weakly above them. It sheds enough light for them to see an open space, small but not crowded with the two of them and McCree behind, with wooden tables, most shoved over and broken, riddled with bullet holes, remnants of lamp mounts with their light emanating crystals shattered. The walls hold stories of a battle fought here, bullets and ash marks marring the metal, and the floor is stained with blood splatters and drip trails. It's devoid of bodies, but there are two doors on either side of the room that no doubt lead elsewhere, hopefully somewhere a little more telling than a square room that looks to of held a shootout.

“So?” Genji turns to McCree, who has slinked away into a corner, leaning up against it.

He nods to the door on the right, but makes no motion to follow the brothers. This time, Genji grabs for his short sword, not unsheathing it but rests his hand on the hilt and nothing more. They open it, another thick metal door, and are greeted with a smaller room but increasingly more important than the last. As the automated lights flicker on, a large wall mounted computer comes into view on the far wall, two smaller ones on either side of it and more centered to the room itself.

“Think they still work?” Genji asks, carefully searching the room for anything else of interest. There’s a duffel bag stashed in the corner, familiar to him, but otherwise nothing, just plain dark metal walls that reach up to an equally plain metal ceiling with flickering light fixtures attached to it and the three computers panels that greeted them.

“They had better.” Hanzo grumbles, clearly unimpressed. He glances behind him to make sure the door is still open, sees the wolf through the open archway in the other room. “Otherwise, what would be the point of dragging us here?”

“I think that this is here at all is curious enough, don’t you think brother?” Genji arches an eyebrow at him as he walks by to one of the panels. He pokes at the keys, now emitting light with new attention brought to it. “This isn’t ours nor our allies’.”

There’s no response behind him, a silent agreement to an issue he’d hoped wouldn’t be one. Genji can’t argue with that, as much as he believed the Elders to be wrong on the account of Talon, he wasn’t actually hoping to find any evidence of their existence here. It makes things complicated.

A screen flickers to life above one of the panels towards the center of the room. There’s no fanfare about it, not like when Genji opened the datapads that belonged to Overwatch and Blackwatch, just a simple screen that shows the map of Japan in an equally simplistic manner. The background is a translucent black with green longitude and latitude lines swiping through an outline of Japan. There are about a dozen red blinking dots all along the interior of the country, including one right on top of where Hanamura is. Genji pokes a finger near where Hanamura is situated and the map zooms in a bit, giving a slightly more detailed outline of the cities and towns. Again, and it zooms in until he can see Hanamura clearly. Once more, and the entire map is just their home with four red dots spread across it.

“Hanzo… come here a second.” Genji calls him over, narrowing his eyes at the suspicious flashing lights.

Two are far south, almost on the outskirts of where Hanamura ends and where another city’s limits begin but both opposite one another on the East and West. Another is centralized and to the East, seemingly at the base of a large mountain range that can be seen from Hanamura’s skyline. The last one is North, in the valley, and if they didn’t know any better they’d say it’s awfully close to where they were standing right this very moment.

“Are these… other outposts like this one?” He turns to Hanzo who is looking over his shoulder, scrutinizing the image on the floating screen. “You think?”

“It’s a possibility,” he answers plainly, reaching over Genji to tap on one of the red dots. It zooms in no further, but several numbers come up next to it. “Radio frequencies?”

Genji snorts. “Talk about old fashion.”

“It’s kept them hidden.” And like an impossibility Hanzo’s frown deepens.

While his brother pokes around the first computer, Hanzo moves to the one adjacent to it only to find that it’s nearly identical in function. A waste, he thinks, but it saves them time from having to rifle through another small computer when the large panel in the back is calling for them. He wakes it with a few pushes of the keyboard and, like the others, it presents itself without fanfare. They wonder idly if they had at one point been locked with a password and McCree cracked them open. A very likely possibility, they doubt he’d bring them here just to look at some dusty computer panels. That worries Genji just a little, because that means McCree has rifled through them, saw something, and felt inclined to share his information where he hadn’t shared before. This isn’t about the harpy, he thinks and his heart starts to race a little. What Hanzo finds digging through the drives at the big computer cements his theory.

Pictures, hundreds of them, dated as far back as ten years past, fill folders among folders to the brim. They’re of them, both Genji and Hanzo, some of their father, some of  the outside portion of Shimada Castle, of all corners and districts of Hanamura, of the forests surrounding them on one side, the mountains, the valley. It isn’t just some shot between the crowds at the marketplace, they are well-placed shots between thin trees in the woods while they hunt, as they camp. There are pictures of their father training them to hunt in their youth, smaller bounties in the fields. Pictures of Hanzo, bleeding and wrecked from the legs down, their father scooping him up and in the distance, in the sky there is a black blurry figure; Hanzo closes them quickly as he sees Genji, who has taken up space beside him, visibly flinch. There are ten years worth of photographs taken that they were never even remotely aware of taking up the space on one disk alone, and they both feel an uncomfortable chill shake their spine.

“Brother, I know this isn’t the time, but,” Genji says, his voice quiet as he stares up at the large screen. “I told you so.”

 

⭐

 

There seems to be a very loud discussion in a language McCree can’t discern going on in the next room, and that’s fine, he thinks, because he’s in no mood to pay attention anyway. He does, however, pick up the tone of their voices and that alone is telling. Hanzo’s is easy to pick apart, a shade or two deeper than Genji’s and more together, calmer, though forced. They found what he’d found earlier, he’s sure of it, and they aren’t exactly arguing but the conversation, whatever it is, is heated. Genji’s tone holds a little more anger to it, not directed at Hanzo, but some other second thing McCree’s unsure about. His pitch is slightly higher, but he gets like that when he’s angry he’s noticed; really angry, not that deceptive anger McCree’s been the object of as of late where it’s low, smooth tones dipped in poisoned honey and half lidded eyes. Whatever it is, it isn’t directed at him, and McCree couldn’t be more thankful at the moment and allows himself a moment of reprieve.

Jesus Christ but does he hope no one asks him _why_. Not why, why did you interfere, because that’s an easy answer. It’s Gabriel, who doesn’t need protection but it’s ingrained in him, years of working under him and yearning to protect him in any way he can the way he’s protected McCree. It’s the brothers, who didn’t seem to heed his warning to no one’s surprise, who are the innocent, sort of, bystanders in this situation. Not why, why were you there, because that’s obvious, he hopes now that he’s brought the brothers here. They saw what they needed to and that hopefully brings him down on their shit list just a few pegs.

It’s why, why did you leap off a precariously steep cliff to save a man who had threatened you ten minutes ago. Why did you then proceed to protect him from said fall with your ribs, the same ribs that are broken and cracked and causing an immense amount of pain despite his ability to heal. Why did you have to get attached to a one Genji Shimada?

That last one is from him, for him, because he doubts the other two will ask and Gabriel won’t come within a dozen feet of him. One would think that being a Shimada would be the one warning he’d need, or when he was found trifling through his things in his hideout, or when he attacked and refused to listen to his reason, or when they tailed him to get to Gabriel. The reasons are racking up at a steady pace and are not, seemingly, overshadowed by the kindness Genji has shown him. But a sickness rolled through his stomach when he saw those pictures, tailing them well before the incident when Talon began plaguing Blackwatch, and that bothered him. McCree is trying to make a last ditch effort to get them to see his side of things, and if this doesn’t do it he won’t know what will, or what he’ll do after that.

It doesn’t take a genius to understand what kind of risk he’s taking right now. He’s injured, he can’t shift without putting his bones through undue stress and he wouldn’t be able to hold up well with the both of them if they decided to turn on him. Even now, as they have their very loud discussion, McCree finds it hard to stay on his feet even slumped against the wall as he is. He’s tired, wants to sleep through the mending of his bones and the withering bruises blossoming across his back underneath his fur. It may not take a genius to understand the risk, but it might as well take a genius to understand that this wasn’t a good idea. This season of visiting Hanamura hasn’t exactly been made up of good ideas so far, in all honesty.

The brothers leave the room, looking frazzled and worse for wear. A decision is reached, they rest here for the night, a decision that Hanzo seems least happy about. McCree is probably right behind him on that front, he’s not terribly keen on staying at a Talon outpost, even less so with two hunters, but they need answers that he can’t give them right now. Genji asks if he’ll be alright in the morning, and with a nod it is decided; they wait. It’s awkward at first, shoving away tables and broken glass, light crystals, so that they have ample space to rest. There’s nothing to sleep on, not really, that isn’t the hard metal floor. The people McCree killed when he arrived, four of them in Talon uniforms, are stuffed into the sorry excuse for a barracks, hardly bigger than a closer with two sets of bunkbeds squeezed against both walls on each side of the door with only enough space between them for maybe two people. It stinks like corpses in there, the smell sinking into the mattresses and blankets. If McCree had known they were going to be sleeping here overnight, he would’ve put them somewhere else. It’s fine, they say, it’s fine, McCree thinks, they’ve all slept in worse places under worse circumstances before.

Hanzo takes the first watch because he says so with so much stubbornness Genji doesn’t even bother arguing. Sleep doesn’t find him easily, however, nor does it McCree. He keeps himself slumped into the corner with his things around him, paws curled beneath him as to not strain his back and sides with uneasy sleeping positions. That, in itself, is uncomfortable for him but that isn’t what’s keeping him up. It’s Hanzo staring at him, at the ready at even the slightest suspicious movement. He chuffs, rolling his eyes at the thought. He can barely stand at full height on his two back legs, he’s the least dangerous living thing in here. Not that McCree can blame him wholly, he is a hunter and McCree a werewolf, and it is with vigilance that they’ve survived this long. Genji, on the other hand, is curled up in the opposing corner against the wall, hugging himself for warmth. McCree has a thought, a dumb one, but a thought nonetheless, and smothers it before he can even begin to humor himself with it. Eventually, the youngest Shimada falls quiet, breath slow and even, and McCree tries to focus on that and not Hanzo’s piercing gaze. Fatigue wins out over his paranoia in time, and he too begins to drift to sleep.

It’s an uneasy one, as most nights have been. He dreams, so vividly that he’s had trouble finding himself even after he wakes, trying to remember where he is in the now. Often he dreams of the night sky, whole and dark and without clouds but twinkling, uncovered stars and the moon bright and full. It has no power over him and it’s in these moments in a different reality, a different time, that he can revel in looking at the sky for what it used to mean to him. Slowly he begins to sink, the ground giving way to a thick, palpable darkness that slides over him and pulls him down. He doesn’t resist it, he allows it to happen until he sees nothing but the dark.

Tonight is not a night for quiet revery but painful remembrance. The room is dark, barely lit by the discolored overhead light, and holds a heavy medicinal smell underlined with bleach. It’s like an out of body experience as McCree watches himself, young and wiry, a bundle of nerves that shake right down to his boots. Gabriel is in front of him, them, sitting almost casually on the raised bed, legs dangling over the side. He won’t look at him, won’t meet his angry gaze and that raises a young McCree’s hackles as he takes a loud, too loud, step forward. The words he speaks are muted, far away and muffled despite being right beside him.

_It was_ my _bullet to take_.

They’re closer now than they had been but McCree doesn’t remember anyone moving. He isn’t an onlooker anymore, but in place of the young man he used to be now, standing right before Gabriel who remains on the bed. Something soft touches the back of his right hand, something cold and hard is placed into his palm, and when he looks down at Gabriel holding his hand and pushing Peacekeeper into it he jerks back. The hand tightens around his wrist and pulls him back in close, words whispered across his lips against his ear.

_Don’t hesitate_.

McCree wakes with a sharp inhale, flinching as consciousness washes over him. It takes a moment to reorient himself, where he is, what he's doing, the smell of others in the room and the soft sound of sleep. He looks around the room, lights above dimmed due to the lack of movement, and finds Hanzo tucked away against a broken table, lightly snoring. Genji has switched positions from his little corner from earlier and has taken up a spot adjacent to McCree against a wall. It looks as if he were on watch and is drifting in and out of sleep. He's shaking, cold if he had to guess, and McCree slowly, quietly gets up from his spot on the floor to stretch and shake himself. His back, he noticed, only feels like someone punched it, it still hurts but it certainly doesn't feel like shards of glass spearing through him. He'll shift later, he's hungry and wants to hunt.

Before that, McCree reaches for his serape, nosing away his arm, gun holster, and boots before tugging it away with his teeth. Almost soundlessly he makes his way to Genji, not wishing to garner attention from the other, most certainly not Hanzo as he approaches his younger brother. He drapes the serape over one shoulder, attempting to cover him as best he can, and as he moves the other corner of the cloth over Genji’s other shoulder he hears his breathing change. It's no surprise when he pulls back and sees sleepy amber eyes staring at him, half-lidded and bleary. They still as they catch each other until a hand pokes out from the top of the serape to pull it closer to him.

“ _Arigat_ _ō_ …” Genji mumbles through chapped lips. He blinks a few times to will away the sleep, licks his lips.

McCree chuffs quietly and backs away, moving towards the door. A hand comes out and grabs his bushy tail gently, causing it to twitch in his hold. He turns around, watching Genji shake away his grogginess.

“Where… where are you going?”

He bares his teeth, not menacingly so but to bite down on the air to show that he's hungry, he wants to eat. It's uncommon that he indulges in his more primal instincts, to hunt like a true wolf, but when towns are scarce he doesn't have much of a choice. He isn't sure Genji understands his meaning but he lets his tail go, settles against the wall again wrapped up in his warm accessory.

“You will come back?”

McCree nods, and that seems good enough an answer. He'll be quick about it, the morning sun still a ways off, and return as quietly as he left, hopefully not raising any alarms.

 

⭐

 

Genji is a light sleeper. Before it was years of hunting and the alertness that ingrained itself into him, it was just an unfortunate circumstance. Any noise; the rain, the guards roaming the halls, his brother’s snoring when they shared a room. Any unwelcome thought; the hunt the following morning, the final he hadn't studied for, the uncommon blow of rejection that afternoon outside the arcade. It's why, their father told them, that their mother used to sing lullabies to them; Genji would always fight sleep and bother Hanzo in return, making him rowdy. In her absence, their father played a recording of her singing to soothe his boys, softly singing with it until they fell asleep. Now, Genji exerts himself to near exhaustion when he's having trouble sleeping, with training or other, more pleasurable things. Tonight is different, a myriad of things plague him and sleep, while it doesn't completely elude him, does not stay for long. He wakes easy when Hanzo shakes him to take the next watch, wakes slower when McCree brushes against him in generosity, and once more when morning presses close and Genji has finally given up on a good night’s rest.

Hanzo is still slumbering, the soft snoring he denies whenever he’s teased about it is filling the silence. Across from him is McCree, seemingly returning from wherever he trotted off to earlier. Genji can't help but be a little jealous of the two of them mastering the art of sleeping even through this inane bullshit circumstance. Even McCree is seemingly peaceful, curled up on himself with the tip of his large pink tongue sticking out a little. He looks like an oversized dog like this, tongue blep and all.

He’s warm, at least, thanks to McCree. He’ll have to take it off later, before Hanzo wakes and questions the serape wrapped around his shoulders like a blanket. It smells like McCree, the spice of his cigarillos, a bit of musk from who knows where he’s been hiding. Genji burrows in it, face covered up to his eyes. The material is soft, worn almost after years, he thinks, of use. The edges are frayed, torn, dirty and some of the color patterns are fading. A gift, McCree had told him, it was a gift and he wonders from who, if it was anyone from the videos he’d watched. Genji breathes in the fabric and shuts his eyes, the warmth of it all almost lulling him back to sleep. Morning is approaching, however, and unfortunately he pulls himself from the serape, folding it neatly in his lap.

It doesn't take long for morning to wake the others. Hanzo first, the early bird that he is, and McCree shortly after as the brothers converse with one another on the day’s plans. They watch as he gets up from his place in the corner, stretching first before raising on three paws and shakes his fur.

“Are you feeling better?” Genji asks, much more awake than when he had been earlier when he spoke with McCree.

“Can you shift?” Hanzo adds, a little less sensitive than Genji’s being. He wants to leave this place, and Genji honestly can’t blame him.

McCree nods, grabs his arm gingerly between his teeth and pads over to the door on the right, with the computers and his duffel tucked away. There's silence for a while, and then the sickening sound of bones reshaping, skin pulling and shrinking. Genji tries to talk over it.

“When we get our answers, what then?” He asks in their native tongue.

“We let him go.” Hanzo says, noticing the surprised look he's given and adds, “He saved your life, for whatever convoluted reason he did it, and that's earned him a moment’s reprieve.”

Genji won't argue that, he's grateful, but letting him go seems like such a waste, not when he seemingly knows more than they do.

McCree returns after a short while, clothed. He walks a little stiffly as he returns to where his things are grouped together, dons the belt buckle and boots, but doesn't clip the holster to his hip. It’s only when Hanzo clears his throat that he looks in their direction as he fiddles with his one boot to get it slipped on all the way.

“Well,” he says, motioning towards them with his head. “Lemme hear ‘em.”

They hesitate for a moment, unsure what to ask first, but it’s Genji who begins.

“Why did you bring us here?”

“I wasn’t planning to, to be honest. And not because I didn’t want to, because I didn’t think you’d all believe me. You know, like last time,” he shoots Genji a look, a quick one but it isn’t missed. “Having that moment at the bottom of the valley seemed like a good a time as any to tell you about it. As for the why, thought maybe you'd wanna know Talon’s been spying on you.”

“Do you know why?” Hanzo asks, but McCree shakes his head. He clicks his tongue. “Wonderful.”

“Could give you guesses, but I'm sure you don't want to waste time on theories.”

“Do you know what they are doing here?” Genji pipes up. “According to that map, they have quite a few of these outposts around Hanamura.”

“Japan. They've got them set up around Japan, but Hanamura’s your first priority, I understand.” Genji ignores the smugness in his voice, the subtle I told you so. “Not just outposts like these, factories. The ones I've been to are old though, ain't got much in the way of information or even clues as to what they used to use ‘em for.”

“Factories?”

“Yeah. Been to one in Japan, but I've seen a lot like them in other places. All of them out of order, but that doesn't mean they've been empty.”

Genji can feel Hanzo frowning beside him, and he's sure his own expression isn't any better. This isn't what they need right now on top of the harpy ordeal, but even so the hunt seems to be diminishing in priority. It's bad enough that there are unauthorized outposts, military or not, on their turf, but factories too? This would have never gone unnoticed, Genji’s sure of it.

“Our father had apparently held discussions with them, but to turn them down as he had Overwatch,” Hanzo explains. “There are no records of this, unfortunately. I believe it due to their lack of persistence.”

“Or Elder Yori is hiding more from us than we thought,” Genji adds sourly.

A thick silence settles in the room, one that makes McCree fidget where he’s standing. Hanzo takes a breath in to say something but Genji cuts him off. He’s tired of skirting around the subject, that there’s a bigger danger in Hanamura than just the harpy, and while they title themselves as hunters they are first and foremost Shimadas. They protect their home, be it from monsters or those who make them.

“Why are you being so stubborn about this?”

“I should ask you the same, Genji.” The breath he took in earlier releases in a heavy sigh.

“We wanted proof, here is our proof,” he motions to the entirety of the room. “They have been here since before Father’s death, spying on us, and you want to shelf this for later? What if what McCree said was true, what if they’re experimenting and creating more monsters than we can handle?”

“We have no proof of _that_ \--”

“Then we search for it,” Genji says in a matter-of-fact tone. He looks to McCree for backup.

With his hands up, he shakes his head. “I’m just here to answer questions is all, not to pick sides.”

Genji huffs at that. “You said it yourself, this is important. Talon is a threat. Hanzo,” he turns to him. “I don’t like the implications of Talon being here, having been here for years without our knowledge. They could be planning something, I think that garners more importance over the harpy. If anything, that gives us a common enemy.”

The thought of having a common enemy with someone who’s been their enemy for six years sits weird with Genji, but not uncomfortably. Not as uncomfortable as it makes him knowing that Talon is in their home. Gabriel, the harpy, whatever they wish to call him, has been a convoluted subject as of late anyway; if anything, Talon is a welcome distraction.

“I don't belittle Talon’s rising threat in our home, Genji. But what are we going to tell the Elders?”

“I could think of a few choice words.” Genji smirks.

Hanzo sighs loudly, “I'm being serious.”

“Me too.”

“ _Genji_.” His tone hardens. “I can only do so much with the Council. We take a moment of reprieve from the harpy to focus on Talon instead, they ask our reason, and what do we tell them? That a werewolf and that harpy have been feeding us viable information?”

He has a point, an unfortunate point, but one nonetheless. They can't tell the Elders the truth of it, and Genji doesn't expect Hanzo to lie to them. As it is, they're going to have to omit McCree from this. To be honest, Genji isn’t comfortable telling them anything about Talon. Things just don’t slip past the Shimada Clan, they have their fingers in too many pies for that to happen. For it to slip someplace outside Hanamura, perhaps, but for factories and outposts to be built right under their noses? Something isn’t right, but he agrees with Hanzo. They can’t exactly tell the Elders they’re working with the same werewolf who duped them a week ago.

“I, um… if I may suggest something?” It's McCree who speaks, almost sheepishly so. “If you're serious about this, outing Talon, I can help.”

Hanzo gives both him and Genji a skeptical look before crossing his arms over his chest, nodding for him to continue.

“I doubt they put all their everything on that map. I've found ones like it before, but… the harpy, he shows me hidden gems. I'd allow you to follow us, take whatever --”

“ _Allow_ us?” Genji interrupts.

“Unless you want a sequel to what happened yesterday.” It isn't a threat, not really, just a hard fact that none of them can really shake their head at. McCree continues, “You can take whatever you find from the outposts, show it to the authorities, whatever you want.”

Hanzo shifts a little. “And your price?”

McCree smirks knowingly. “You catch on quick. I want that bounty off my head. And, I'm sure this goes without saying, leave the harpy alone. No harpy, no me, no Talon.”

Hanzo’s expression says it all, he’s unhappy with this deal, and it’s Genji’s turn to fidget beside him. He tries to give McCree a telling look without being too obvious, that he didn’t tell Hanzo everything, he kept his promise about Gabriel. He looks at both of them, attention diminishing quickly when he meets Hanzo’s lackluster expression, stares a little longer at Genji to decipher his. McCree tilts his chin up at him slowly before switching gears, attention veering back to the older of the two.

“Look, if push comes to shove, let me handle it. I ain’t looking to put you two in harm’s way, my focus is Talon. But if you agree to this and intend to harm us, I can’t do much about it and to be honest I’m not going to feel inclined to either.” McCree shifts his weight on his hips, folds his arms across his chest to mimic Hanzo’s stance. “It ain’t forever, and if we don’t find anything that doesn’t peak your interest we can always drop the deal completely.”

Silence settles between them as they deliberate amongst themselves. Genji thinks it’s a good idea, not the best idea or the safest one, but a good one that’ll get them, hopefully, to their goal. He remembers the recordings, the reports, the photos of McCree’s injured comrades and his words. But he also can’t help but glance down at Hanzo’s legs, the prosthetics that seamlessly connect to his flesh as if they were just a pair of armor; he can’t help remembering his heart sinking into his gut when he saw Hanzo nearing the edge of the cliff and the fall that would have nearly killed him. He remembers how put together Gabriel is when he speaks to him and how out of control he looked when he snatched him up into the air, how the feathers grew with the madness in his eyes. Genji remembers McCree’s words again.

_Gabe’s still in there, I know he is._

“Genji?” Hanzo’s voice shakes him from his reverie. “What do you think?”

He thinks for a moment before replying, speaking to McCree, “Where will you be, if we decide to do this?”

The other shrugs. “Around, hiding.”

Genji shakes his head. “No.”

McCree chuckles a bit and shrugs again. “Well where the hell else do you expect me to be? You put a pretty bounty on my head.”

“He has a point,” Hanzo interjects. “If we lift the bounty now, you might run --”

“I’m hurt you’d even assume that.” He places a hand over his chest, faux pout gracing his expression.

“-- _but_ if we do not, you run the risk of discovery. Not to mention lifting the bounty prematurely without any proof of your death will raise concern. We can’t very well bring him back to our home though.”

“Our suite.” Genji says it as an afterthought, quiet until his eyes light up with realization. He repeats himself more confidently, “Our family suite. It’s far enough from Hanamura that no one will really question it, and no one outside of us is allowed up there anyway. We can keep him there until we’re ready to head off.”

Hanzo hums, nodding minutely at the thought.

“Oh, just what I was hopin’ for, another gilded cage,” McCree huffs.

“It’s a small house.”

“A gilded cage with amenities, then.”

Genji rolls his eyes. “Well that is our deal, take it or leave it. You run with us to keep the other hunters off your back and we learn more about this Talon.”

It’s reminiscent of their first deal, clouded in secrets and double meanings. This time things are clearer, Genji isn’t trying to hide McCree’s true nature, he isn’t some stranger in their home, and things are turning to be mutually beneficial, despite the circumstances. But the intensity in the room is thick; Hanzo looks uncomfortable beside his brother but Genji can’t tell why, and McCree looks cornered even when he isn’t. And Genji, well, he keeps repeating McCree’s words as if he’s trying to believe them himself. A greater evil is amongst them, they have to put aside petty rivalries and revenge schemes for now.

Hanzo is the first to outstretch his hand to McCree, seemingly done with his internal fight with whatever bothers him. He’s patient as he waits for the other to decide and weigh his options. They don’t rush him, it’s not an easy decision for either party. Then, with hesitance in his motion, McCree unfolds his arms and outstretches his own hand towards Hanzo’s, and they shake. His eyes don’t leave Hanzo until they finish and McCree offers his hand to Genji next.

“No tricks?” He asks.

If this were anything less than what it is, he’d smile that devilishly sharp smile that fits too perfectly for his face, amused at the implications. It’s a question from someone who’s already been burned once and not looking to go another round, so Genji tilts his chin up instead, eyes focused on McCree’s, as he reaches out to grab his hand. He waits until the warm, calloused fingers wrap around his palm, eyes never wavering.

“No tricks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday season and the new year is treating you well!
> 
> Thank you for everyone's continued patience and generous compliments, you're all undeniably sweet and they're very much appreciated ❤ feel free to hit me up on madamerioulette@tumblr


	7. Behind The Wheel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because nothing bad has ever happened around alcohol.

Coming back from it hurts. He isn’t entirely sure what  _ it  _ is, after so many years he hasn’t named it, hasn’t wanted to, but it’s dangerous whatever it is. It’s clear it comes from the serum, the poison, the thick blackness in his veins that burns him from the inside. It sucks away at his control, triggered by bloodshed, by the thrill and adrenaline of the fight, and sometimes, rarely, it’s triggered by nothing but a faint desire to just hurt. It leaves gaps in his memories, dark nights spent alone only to wake with bloodied hands and death around him. It’s getting worse, but there isn’t much he or Jesse can do about it except keep him from the fray. When it’s unavoidable, or he seeks it out as he had yesterday, Gabriel makes mistakes.

It starts with a whisper, low and at the back of his skull, a rhythmic thing that presses deep into his subconscious. On good days, Gabriel keeps it at bay, keeps his focus strong so he can be in control, but it’s easy to slip like he had yesterday. The cut across his abdomen, a gift from Genji, now healed and having left no scar but a small naked patch of skin in its wake, had been the trigger. The smell of his own blood, the promise of more, the fire in the other’s eyes as he raised his weapon to him. Beyond that, Gabriel doesn’t remember much. He fought the older brother, pushed him away from his kin, but the gaps in his memory are too much. He has Genji in his grip and he lets go, he doesn’t remember being so high up above the ground, above the steep dip in the valley. He sees Jesse catch him and fall and he’s hurt him  _ again  _ and he screams. He flees, and now he’s here. It’s only getting worse, Gabriel knows that, but he has to make sure he shows Jesse everything he knows, what he’s found. Talon has to suffer, and he’ll make sure they do until his dying breath.

The pain of coming back from his fit has died to a bearable dull thrumming like the unfortunate six year headache it’s been. Gabriel finds his bearing in comparison to where he was yesterday and retraces his steps carefully. He doesn’t know where Jesse is, where the Shimadas are, but he will soon enough. Yesterday had been a shitshow, as he’d only meant to scare away the hunters tracing their steps. The cliffside he’d led Jesse to, and subsequently the brothers, is notorious for its slippery slopes. He figured they’d retreat after a while, but the blood had spilt and that’s when the fight began in earnest. How ironic, he thinks as he makes his way through the trees, that it’s he who had ended up slipping.

Gabriel eventually finds himself outside the outpost he’d taken Jesse to, footsteps littering the snow. Paw prints and boots alike. He sniffs at that but doesn’t go inside, it’d be a madhouse if he did and he’s not keen on losing control again so he flees once more. If Jesse needs him, he knows how to find him, but he doesn’t go too far either. He’ll hear if anything goes arie, not that he needs to protect him anymore; these past few years have seen the opposite and Gabriel feels a mixture of pride and something else at the thought. Jesse’s grown a lot in these years, far away from the lanky little punk he picked up in the New Mexico desert and further still from the insubordinate troublemaker he brought in for training. There isn’t a moment where Gabriel feels guilty for taking him in, he’d die before he sees a kid like Jesse behind bars because life dealt him a shitty hand. What he does feel, now, is guilt for dragging him along when he’s like this, out of senses and control. He’d hoped to show him the real danger, pull him out of hiding to chase after Talon,  _ away  _ from him but he should have known better. As much as Jesse likes to tout independence, he clings to people. He clings to Gabriel, and so he follows through thick and thin and Gabriel leads just like the Blackwatch days.

Gabriel wishes with every fiber of his being that Jesse wouldn’t, that he wouldn’t look up at him with those big brown eyes full of hope and a way to fix something that can’t ever be fixed. It’s gotten him this far, Gabriel will admit, knowing he has someone through the hell that he’s going through, but he never wanted to drag Jesse through it with him. He  _ hurt  _ him, and he will never forget the feeling of flesh beneath his claws and his cry of pain as he sowed unhealable wounds into his arm; an arm that, at the time, had belonged to something else, something not Jesse, and then it was and he fled. Always fleeing.

The thought alone starts the whispers growing louder, firmer, almost a solid presence as the feathers begin to grow and the edges of his vision blur. Gabriel takes in a deep breath, folds his hands behind his head as if the pressure there will make it stop. He can’t lose himself now, not to nothing but a thought, but there’s nothing to distract him from it so he sinks, a pain so forceful it’s almost numbing as it courses through him --

Footsteps. Soft beneath the powder of snow but the familiar light jingle of metal pulls him from the brink. Gabriel feels the whispers leave in a rush, the feathers retract and fall away into the shadow that is self made around him. He looks up to see someone between the trees, and it almost doesn’t register as McCree for a moment. He’s wearing plain clothing, dark slacks and one of his black thermal sweaters, and is without his hat and serape. The only thing that gives him away as McCree outside of that messy mop of hair is the metal arm that glints in the early morning light. Slowly, quietly, Gabriel makes his way between the tops of the trees closer to him. As he perches on a nearby branch thick enough to hold his weight, he makes a purposeful noise to grab his attention.

“Ah, there you are,” McCree tilts his head up, smiling as he turns to look at him. “I was hopin’ you were close, kinda on a time crunch.”

Gabriel gives him a curious look, but says nothing.

“I’m okay. Hurt my back a little, but it ain’t nothing, the brothers didn’t hurt me,” he reassures, rolling his shoulders back. His face pinches a little, and he walks forward with a bit of stiffness in his strut, but otherwise is alive and unharmed as far as Gabriel can see.

From there,  McCree explains what happened after he left; the uneasy neutral ground they stood upon after his stunt saving Genji, how he showed the hunters the outpost and the uncomfortable amount of photographs taken of them, how they stayed the night to let him heal so they could ask him questions that very morning.

“Listen… I know, I  _ know  _ this isn’t gonna sound good, but,” he pauses, his gaze shifting elsewhere. “I’ve made a deal with them. The bounty on my head ain’t gonna do us any good moving around, they have their hunters scouring every bit of Hanamura that they aren’t presently at. I know we can take ‘em, but it’s unwanted attention not to mention time consuming.”

McCree pauses, presumably gauging Gabriel. He isn’t sure how to feel about the prospect of a deal, but he leans in a little closer to motion for him to go on. The other nods, moves to take an over eager step forward but stops himself.

“We're working with the Shimadas --  _ not _ their Clan, just Genji and Hanzo.” Gabriel makes an unpleasant noise at this, but doesn't interrupt. “They'll keep the hunters off us as long as they're with us when we travel. They want to know more about Talon, and if they find anything concrete they'll lift the bounty off completely and we'll be free to leave when we're done.”

Gabriel’s eyes narrow, a low vibrating rumble emanating from him. The positives might outweigh the negatives, he thinks, seeing as McCree does have a point; the more hunters they run into and kill the more unwanted attention they garner. On the flipside, they'll be travelling with the two most dangerous hunters in Japan with only their word to go off of. It's an unfortunate circumstance, but they might not have much of a choice.

“I gotta stay on their radar,” McCree adds flippantly. “They're taking me to a hotel of theirs outside of Hanamura, closer to the city.”

That doesn't sit well with him, so much so that Gabriel lurches forward, baring his teeth as he digs his talons into the tree. The bark around his hand begins to darken and wilt, but he pays it no mind for the moment.

“Yeah, I know,” he says, letting out a long sigh, the cold air curling around his breath visibly. “It sucks. But they believe us, mostly, I think. If we can get real solid evidence, a lot of it, they can take it publicly and drag Talon down. You know we can’t; I'm wanted in half a dozen countries not to mention my  _ former _ affiliation with Overwatch works against me now. And you… well, you're dead to most everyone. We need people with status, even if it's just here in Japan, it'll spread. We'll smoke ‘em out.”

McCree sounds so hopeful despite the deal he's struck. It's a wonder, really, how he can still trust them after what happened; the same can be said for the Shimadas too, but desperate times call for strange bedfellows on occasion. Gabriel is no stranger to it, having come to Japan frequently with his comrades to talk with the Shimada Clan for aid, and it seems McCree is ironically picking up where he left off. Still, the threat stands, he wants Genji,  _ both  _ Shimadas, to stay away from him. Call it paranoia, call it his over protective instincts, blame it on the feral poison eating at him; he just wants Jesse safe.

He must still look tense, and he is, because McCree takes a small step towards him and says, softly, “Hey, it'll be okay. I can handle myself with them. But we've both given our words for a ceasefire of sorts, alright, so nothin’ should happen. I'll be okay.”

Gabriel’s feathers wilt, his expression softens. This is what he wanted, in a sense, for McCree to branch off on his own. But to  _ safety _ , not to another lion’s den. He isn't sixteen anymore, not twenty-two, he's twenty-eight, an adult, but he's been an adult since before Gabriel met him, he knows. McCree can handle himself, but that doesn't mean he isn't going to be happy about him staying with the Shimadas. It does, however, mean he's going to have to play nice. He'll do it, for Jesse, because he's right. They need someone with status to out Talon, and that certainly isn't either of them. Eventually, Gabriel settles himself on a different tree, gliding between them to flank McCree as the other tree grows unstable, the poison in his claws seeping into it.

He nods, conceding despite his better judgement. As an afterthought, he makes a noise in his throat to keep McCree’s attention. Speaking hurts his throat, the cords an uncomfortable mess, so he points to the sky, at the moon just barely visible in the early morning sun, not yet set. It’s about three days until the full moon, Gabriel reminds him, he must be wary.

McCree’s face pinches like the reminder adds undue stress to the whole of the situation, but it’s a reminder that bares repeating. In his early Blackwatch days, he had suppressants to keep the days before a full moon calm, and would usually spend the night of under heavy sedation. The Deadlock Pack had instilled some nasty habits into him, the first full moon with Blackwatch had been eye opening to that. As the years passed and his training instilled newer, better habits and a calmer mindset, it came to pass that all he needed after a while were suppressants to keep his mind focused. It helped being with others like him, in both Overwatch and Blackwatch, their calming presence bleeding into McCree. It’s been a long six years without any of it, but McCree has managed, always making sure to be far from heavily populated areas and away from hunting grounds. It seems impossible this season in Hanamura; the entirety of the area is hunting grounds with the bounty and Gabriel is unsure how the Shimadas will treat him under a full moon. McCree rolls his shoulders back, winces a little at an unseen unease in his muscles, and shrugs up at him.

“I’ll deal with it, don’t worry,” he offers him a smile. “When we’re ready to move, I’ll meet you at the last hideout.”

Gabriel nods again, understanding. He won’t lie and say he doesn’t wish he could follow, if only a mile or so off at least, but going anywhere near Hanamura, near a city, would be cause for undue alarm. They need to play this safe, and as much as he hates it, he’ll concede. For now.

McCree starts to walk off, back in the direction of the hidden outpost, and Gabriel opens his mouth to speak, to say one last thing. What comes out first is just a sound, garbled and low but loud enough that McCree stops to turn around to look at him over his shoulder. There’s a scar, hidden beneath the bulk of feathers that line his neck like an upturned collar, the fluff that billows down the center of his neck and down his chest. A rough, never fully healed patch where a chunk of flesh is marred and gaping. The skin there is always in some sort of disarray, attempting to heal and failing, again and again, it makes his vocal cords burn whenever he attempts to speak. A wound from the explosion at the United Nations, a memory that only graces Gabriel’s thoughts but for half a second for fear of losing himself. A lot went on, he doesn’t need to reminisce, doesn’t have the time. He opens his mouth again, the words forming on his lips.

“Jessito,” the word, the name finds him. He’s twenty-eight, Gabriel reminds himself, no longer a child but the name seems to ring mirth in McCree’s eyes, a brightness that wasn’t there before and a smile that grows. A nickname used in private moments when Jesse would lose himself a little, find the anxiety clawing at the inside of his mind and cause a hitch in his breathing, uneven and quickening. And Gabriel would pull him aside, tell him to  _ breath _ , remind him where he is, that he’s safe. He isn’t going back to where he came from. The memory urges him to continue, voice straining, “Stay safe.”

It’s all he can manage, but it’s all he really needs. McCree lights up, hesitates to leave almost. It’s a rarity he speaks up, and the other hangs on his every word. Maybe he waits for more, but it doesn’t come, his throat burns and he can feel the ever fresh wounds reopen, that is if they ever even close. McCree nods to him though, can see his hand twitch to tilt the hat that isn’t there down to hide his eyes.

“I will,  _ jefe _ .”

 

⭐

 

It takes the better portion of the morning to arrive at the hotel that houses the Shimadas’ suite. They trudge for about an hour and a half through the snowy, wind whipped valleys as Hanzo phones for a transport to pick them up.  _ Discreet _ , he stresses. Oni arrives in one of their more compact transport vehicles, lacking in the bells and whistles that usually accommodate their models. It’s discreet, as Hanzo had asked. Oni doesn’t ask about their guest and McCree doesn’t offer up anything other than a friendly nod to them as he ducks down into the car. They drive in silence, save for Hanzo’s quiet conversations on his phone, the tone of it ranging from calm and collected to mild, underlying irritation. Genji doesn’t pay too much attention to it, sitting directly behind him in the backseat curled up in his fur coat Oni had brought him, revelling in the warmth it brings. Beside him, behind Oni on the right side, is McCree who busies himself with the bland forest scenery through the heavily tinted windows. He looks deep in thought, if Genji had to guess, so he doesn’t bother him. They’ve had a long day and restless night. It’ll only get heavier from here.

The district between the main centerfold of Hanamura where their estate lies and the bustling city in the East still holds a quiet atmosphere familiar to the Shimadas’ home. The nightlife promises something a little livelier, but as late morning turns to early afternoon the streets are calm, not quite bustling but alive. It’s the middle of a work week, nothing too exciting happens during the day. The street in front of the hotel is the busiest, of families and businessmen and women alike coming around for vacations or work related escapades respectively. Hotel employees come out to greet the Shimadas, to offer their services and bring their things up to their room though they have nothing but their small packs of supplies to which they both quietly hang on to. McCree keeps his duffel close and his head down, taking as little attention as he possibly can.  _ Discreet _ , Hanzo stresses before they leave the car. The crowd helps, people passing by and children rushing past, a few people wave and mention the brothers by name but they do little beyond a warm greetings to them. They have business to take care of.

Genji ushers McCree into the nearest elevator, away from the swathes of people, and leaves Hanzo to deal with the owner. Commonly, he comes here when he’s too drunk; not because he doesn’t want to listen to Hanzo -- he scolds him only a little, helps him up to his second floor room complaining about how he should really invest in a ground floor one instead, and makes sure he has aspirin and two bottles of water for the next morning -- but so that Hanzo isn’t the one getting reprimanded. It’s a hassle, really, how the Elders seem to pin everything back to his brother even when he has nothing to do with it.  _ Discreet _ , Genji remembers as he punches in the passcode to their top floor suite. Discretion is not really his thing when it comes to partying, so he’s well known for coming by to nurse away his hangover in peace or to bring back a guest or two. Hanzo usually comes around for business, the way their father did, and occasionally relieve himself of the stress at Shimada Castle. The latter is a rarity, so when he asks to speak to the owner, back straight and brows knitted together, they know it’s for business. They know the meaning of discretion.

Hanzo is the last one to the suite, the business dealt with at the front desk. They aren’t the be disturbed unless told otherwise. It will be Genji, no need to mention the guest, who is staying for a while on his own, and after Hanzo is finished dealing with things at home will he join them to solidify this strange team they’ve formed. He’s still having trouble swallowing it, having monsters as their allies, but are they really? Monsters, he specifies to no one in particular, not allies. Allies is a strange word when it comes to business with the Shimada Clan; Hanzo likes to use the word partnerships, take a little, give a little, a mutual beneficiary. No, Hanzo ponders the word monster, the connotation behind it, the meaning. He’s never had this problem before, but he knows Genji wrestles with it commonly. He wonders if his brother is starting to rub off on him a little and he frowns, tapping the number pad in the elevator. Now is not the time to rethink what it means to be a monster, yet here he is in an elevator going twenty-one floors up thinking that very thing. Monsters kill people, undescrimanantly, cruelly. Monsters are wild, fickle things with no direction. Monsters are what they’ve trained to rid the world of. So why is it that a monster went out of his way to save his brother; the very idea of it bothers him and yet he saw it with his own two eyes. That American werewolf leapt off the cliff before him and saved Genji.

If Hanzo thinks hard enough, something he wishes he wasn’t doing in a tiny metal box, he’ll know that McCree has technically never hurt them beyond a broken wrist, an easy fix, and a bruised pride, a work in progress. He spent a week in their home doing nothing but holding innocent chatter with Genji, eating meals with him, recovering, every so often sneaking a smoke away from their medical facility. Even while they fought ruthlessly on the cliffside against an entity far greater than them, he did his best to keep him out of harm’s way. And McCree leads them, then, to a discovery Hanzo never thought he’d ever see in Hanamura, not under his watch.

If Hanzo thinks even harder, he’ll take away the fact that every moon cycle McCree becomes an oversized dog and reduces him to just a foreign man with a tacky fashion sense breaking a lot of laws for the betterment of people. Talon represents a threat, that much he’ll admit, and if what McCree says is true, if they are developing a sort of serum that sullies those of calm, civil minds to start yet another war, well that’s something Hanzo can stand against, something he  _ must  _ stand against. They are renowned for being monster hunters, and there’s no bigger monster beginning to rear its ugly head quite like Talon. In comparison, McCree doesn’t seem so bad, the harpy a little less urgent. It’s only in Hanzo’s nature that he distrusts them and part of him wishes he had Genji’s more open heart. But of the two of them, one of them has to have a level head, and being opposites of one another always has that advantage depending on the situation.

And then there is the subject of what happened during their fight with the harpy. As the elevator softly pings with each new floor, Hanzo looks down at his left arm, exposed and decorated through his shredded uniform. Genji will surely bother him about it now that they’re not freezing at the bottom of some valley and the adrenaline from the previous day’s battle has fizzled to nothing, but he isn’t sure what he’ll tell him. The truth seems the easiest, but even that harbors some difficulty as Hanzo tries to explain it to himself, and he saw what happened.

Their father used to tell them magnificent stories about their mother, about dragons, of mysticism and wonder. They’re just stories, Hanzo thinks, he knows, but there is one that is irrefutably true even if he can’t explain it. The story of two dragons, brothers, from the North and South winds. He loved that story as a child, loves it still as an adult but with less mysticism behind it as he’s grown more tethered to reality. What shot out of his arm was nothing short of fairytales, and now Hanzo questions what he can even call children’s stories.

The elevator dings at the twenty-first floor and the doors open immediately into the foyer of the Shimada Suite. The style is much more modern in decor and furnishings than their estate, tall tables and too plush chairs, an exotic chandelier that Genji bought once on a whim and  _ god  _ does Hanzo hate how abstractly obnoxious it is. The furnishings are soft, warm shades of color with dark wood accents, the walls a muted beige to bring it all together. The elevator exits at the foyer, almost a half circle in shape with short, wide stairs that lead down three small levels to a figure eight shaped area, one portion indoors where chairs and couches are put together, the other portion a porch situated behind thick, tinted glass windows that reach from floor to ceiling. The windows cover about a third of the half circle room, leading through a hallway where the wall takes over to take one down to where the bedrooms line the northern most wall. Two doors are shut, their parents’ and Hanzo’s, one is wide open showing off the messy trail of Genji’s clothes left behind in his wake, and the last two, the guest rooms, have their doors ajar just enough that Hanzo can tell which one McCree is currently pacing through curiously. To the right is a corded off kitchenette, fully stocked and holding Genji, newly changed and refreshed and digging through the refrigerator. He doesn’t hear Hanzo come in, but he recognizes the cadence of steps he hears later given his relaxed stance in front of the open door.

Genji says something, his mouth full, and Hanzo tuts.

“I don’t even think  _ you _ understood what it was you said.”

Pulling himself from the refrigerator, Genji turns to look over his shoulder, the butt end of a peach poking out from between his teeth as he grabs a bottle of water. He looks much more relaxed now, dressed casually in a pair of grey sweatpants and a faded yellow T-shirt with the Rikimaru logo on it, the edges of it chipped away by wear and tear. Shutting the fridge with the heel of his foot, Genji plucks the peach from his mouth, crunching down on a mouthfuls worth before repeating himself between chewing.

“Is everything situated?”

“Would it kill you to speak without food in your mouth?”

Genji dramatically falls back onto the refrigerator, the hand gripping the peach folding over his forehead. “ _ Yes _ .”

Hanzo tries not to laugh, but he doesn’t try to hide the amused smile on his face. “Everything is situated.”

“Good!” He pushes off the fridge, opting to seat himself on top of the small, dark wood table in the center of the kitchen. “Now tell me what happened to your arm.”

In all fairness, it is later, as Hanzo had asked when the conversation could take place. McCree isn’t in the room, though it wouldn’t matter too much seeing as he doesn’t speak Japanese, but he seems the type to be able to pick up on the tones of conversations rather adeptly. Out of curiosity, Hanzo leans back a bit to catch the guest room he saw the other pacing around before. He’s still in there, rummaging through his bag for something, and Hanzo returns his attention towards his brother.

“Now?”

“ _ Yes _ , now. I know something happened,” he scoots further towards the edge of the table. “Something  _ new _ , so tell me. I felt it when I was falling -- and don’t be a smartass and say it was gravity.”

“I would never.” Hanzo’s smirk widens just a smidgen, falling to a sigh that leaves exasperatedly from his lips. “I don’t even know how to explain it. I panicked and I felt this overwhelming feeling of…  _ something _ and then it just happened.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t  _ know _ .”

He does know, he just doesn’t want to say it outloud, to say the words  _ the dragons manifested  _ with his own voice through his own mouth. Because Hanzo knows how Genji gets about the stories Father used to spin them, how alit his eyes would get and how with every fiber of his being he believes them. And it’s only out of the tiniest sliver of pettiness that Hanzo doesn’t want to say it outloud because he knows Genji will tell him  _ I told you so  _ after years of telling him to grow up and out of those fairytales, not when there are real monsters living amongst them. Not when there’s a monster in the next room. Saying that the spirit dragons from Father’s stories manifested from his arm makes it real, more real than seeing it with his own eyes, and that scares him just a little. They were never taught how to control this so-called gift -- a curse, depending on who you asked -- and it wasn’t until yesterday that something actually happened, something beyond the quiet reflection in their weapons, the static electricity that dances across their skin in the heat of battle.

“I panicked,” Hanzo admits again, quieter than before, almost to himself but Genji hears it. “I felt helpless to do anything, so I shot at the harpy in frustration and….”

Hanzo wonders if this was how Genji felt all those years ago, when he came home a wreck in Father’s arms, blood dripping thickly into the snow, too dark, too real. There’s a bubble of guilt welling in his chest, he knows he should’ve watched his footing, his surroundings, he should’ve known the harpy would push them near the edge where it had the advantage, and in that same thought he can’t believe they’re actually working with it shortly after that fiasco. He wants to scold Genji for being so reckless, but Hanzo knows he’s as much at fault as his brother. They’re lucky they came out of it relatively unscathed. It doesn’t do much to mask the guilt winding its way into his throat, constricting it.

“Hanzo.” Genji’s much closer now than he remembers, off the table and standing in front of him, the short wall between them. “I’m alright.”

“I know that.”

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, inquisitive as he goes to take a smaller bite of his peach. Genji chews it slowly, as if thinking of the right words to say, and when he does speak all that comes out is, “I’m sorry.”

It’s sincere.

“I am too.” Hanzo doesn’t want to say why, doesn’t need to. Genji picks it up easily enough, accepts it just as quietly.

“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” That is said with more hesitation, less sincerity and Hanzo doesn’t beget Genji for it. He wants to know and he deserves to.

Hanzo scratches at the textured wall between them with his forefinger, digging his short nail into the paint until it leaves a semi-circle mark in it. The pressure in his throat eases a little, his heart thrums slower in his chest. There’s a lot going on right now, the last thing they need is to awkwardly fumble their way through knowing how to use their gift in the middle of it all. But if he doesn’t tell Genji, and he finds out another way, a less convenient way in a most likely less than convenient time, he’ll get on his case about internalizing everything. He’s good at it though, Hanzo’s always been one to bottle it up, but everything has its limits, including him.

It was shortly after their father died that everything got to be a little too much; the funeral, the mourning, Genji running off without a word, the pile of work that now rested on his shoulders and the Elders breathing down his neck. His chest felt tight, his throat constricted, a cold sweat took him and before he knew it he was dry heaving into the toilet. Genji found him like that, hair pulled back with one arm around the bowl, the other keeping the lid of it from falling on his head as he lurched. He’d been embarrassed; he’d been groomed for taking over their family empire and here he was two months into it having a panic attack in the toilet. Genji picked him up off the floor, sat him on the closed toilet seat, and drew him a bath. He left him alone for the duration of it, knocking on the door every so often to check up on him, and when the water turned lukewarm Hanzo left it, pruny and a little less stressed than previously. Genji had set himself up on Hanzo’s bed, tea and snacks spread across the comforter with the television on and one of their favorite movies playing. They forgot about responsibilities for a few hours, were just brothers laughing and tossing popcorn into each others’ hair and falling asleep in positions they knew their limbs and necks would whine about in the morning. And when morning came, Genji told him that when things get too much, to  _ tell  _ him, he can’t read Hanzo’s mind no matter how in tune they seem to be some days, that it isn’t the end of the world to take a few hours of a busy week for himself, to be Hanzo and not the heir to the Shimada Clan. Hanzo is, much like his brother, stubborn, but does his best to make sure he goes to him before his troubles drown him again, does his best not to let the embarrassment get to him. He’s the older brother, he should be the one taking care of Genji -- oh, and he does, the nights he comes home reeking of alcohol, stumbling loudly through the hallways draped over Hanzo’s shoulder -- but Genji assures him it goes both ways. They’re brothers, that what brothers do.

They look after one another and, occasionally, irritate each other. The code of siblinghood.

Genji deserves to know.

“My dragons manifested.”

He’s in mid-bite of his slowly devoured peach when Hanzo says it and he stops, nearly biting his tongue off along with the slice of peach when the realization hits him.

“What?” Genji’s brain supplies dumbly, eyes widening in delight. “Like… they actually appeared?”

“That is what manifest means, yes.”

“ _ Hanzo _ !” He exclaims, nearly dropping his fruit. “That’s amazing! How did you do it? Did it hurt? What did they look like? Was that what that noise was? It sounded… kind of like a train, really. Was that them  _ roaring _ \-- Hanzo that’s --”

“One question at a time,” Hanzo chuckles, the nervousness he’d felt previously bubbling away. “It wasn’t  _ that  _ impressive. They didn’t even look like dragons.”

“What did they look like?”

“Two blue… noodles.  _ Barely _ . They were wispy, swirling around my arrow, but it hadn’t connected with anything so they just sort of vanished. I don’t know how I did it, really. Like I said, I panicked.” Hanzo returns to looking down at the divider, forefinger picking at the bumpy stucco wall. “It felt real, though. Intense. Like something had come alive.”

“Yeah, the  _ dragons _ .” Genji says in a matter of fact tone, before adding, “Or in your case, wispy blue noodles.”

“Oh, ha ha.” He rolls his eyes, quieting a moment before speaking up again. “Perhaps when this is all over, we can really focus on harnessing this… whatever.”

“Gift.” Supplies Genji. “It’s mother’s gift.”

He’s so forthright when he says it, full of such an unbelievable confidence that Hanzo wishes he had. Wishes he hadn’t spent his last few years as a young adult snubbing his nose at Father’s stories while Genji tried to live through them. And he wonders, with a skipping beat of his heart, if any of the other stories are true.

About their father’s escapades in his youth.

About their mother.

“Yeah,” Hanzo replies plainly.

“Hey,” Genji not-so gently punches him in the shoulder with his handful of half eaten peach. There’s a serious flicker across his expression so quick that if Hanzo had blinked he would’ve missed it, but he sees it just before his brother manages to hide it away behind a quirky grin. “Don’t shake it off like it’s nothing. And don’t you think for a fucking second I’m not jealous as hell.”

“Jealous of my wispy blue noodles?” He chuckles.

“It’s more than I’ve ever accomplished,” the other pouts before hiding it behind his fruit, crunching into it. “It’s not fair.”

“Well let’s hope the next time it happens, one of us isn’t in perilous danger.”

“That I can agree with.”

There’s a noise from one of the other rooms and Hanzo’s attention is pulled toward it, towards McCree opening the door completely and peeking out. The conversation drops, despite its ambiguity towards their guest, and Hanzo excuses himself to shower before returning home. He’ll be back in less than a week, time willing, and until then Genji is in charge. This time, he hopes, the shit won’t hit the fan.

 

The shit hits the fan.

Or, rather, it’s starting to. The shit is veering dangerously close to the whirling fan blades and it’s two people sitting, watching it, like a car crash in slow motion, talking about it.

It starts no less than an hour after Hanzo leaves, and McCree finds himself comfortable enough to pad around the suite in earnest without having the eldest Shimada keep an all too watchful eye on him. Despite his daring rescue of his brother, Hanzo seems no less suspicious. Genji, on the other hand, couldn’t be any more casual, comfortable as he lounges on the plush black couches going over files through his datapad. He’s still in sweatpants and a T-shirt, Rikimaru logo and all, rucked up a little ways past his belly button, a rustle of clothing that had happened when he flopped down to begin with. And McCree, he couldn’t seem any less uncomfortable in his own skin right now, pacing about like a lost puppy. Genji notices after the first fifteen minutes of him doing it, but doesn’t say anything until it begins to get distracting, the pitter patter of his bare feet up and down the wood flooring, sitting still for only a few seconds before starting up again.

“You can sit down, you know. You aren’t, like, a prisoner or anything,” says Genji, gesturing to the other three chairs and one available couch. “Or eat, or shower, or whatever. Just quit pacing, it’s distracting.”

“Technically I am,” McCree says from behind him. That’s something Genji hates; he can be quiet when he wants to be, practically soundless when he moves, so when he speaks or makes a purposeful noise it never comes from where Genji next expects it. The fact that he’s even making noise is suspicious, he wants the attention. “I mean, I can’t leave or anything.”

“You are a wanted man, there’s a difference.” There isn’t, not really. Bounty or not, it’s highly unlikely they’d let McCree out on his own. “Did you need something?”

“That obvious, huh?” He smiles a little, stopping at the foot end of the couch. A bold choice, Genji thinks, considering how many times he’s kicked him in the last couple of weeks.

“You are making a lot of noise,” answers Genji, swatting away some of the floating files above his datapad so he can see McCree better. “You usually don’t.”

“Well, excuse me.” He puts a hand on his chest, feigning insult. “What am I interrupting you from exactly?”

“I’m looking for news on construction in the areas specified on the map at the outpost.” Genji inverts a few of the screens, enlarging them so McCree can read them. “Hanzo is looking through personal clan files to see if anyone came to us asking for construction so we can cross reference. But so far I have found nothing, so there won’t be much to cross reference. Unless your Overwatch files can offer us anything?”

“No, I’ve looked through ‘em trying to find stuff like this, to try and find a pattern in where Gabe was taking me but no luck. Doesn’t matter though, I don’t have them anymore.” Genji gives him an inquisitive look. “I think Gabriel took ‘em after you had a peek.”

“Oh.” He fidgets a little, straightening himself up on the arm of the couch. Despite how the encounter had ended, Genji still feels guilty about prying. He hadn’t meant to look through McCree’s personal files, but curiosity is a fickle thing. “I am… sorry about that.”

“Hm.”

“I am,” Genji says with more confidence. “It was not my intention --”

“But you did.” McCree bristles. “So drop it.”

Genji makes a put off noise in his throat. “Fine.” A beat of silence. “So back to the original discussion; did you need something?”

The other shrinks at the question, his former bravado gone. He seems on edge, moody, as he looks away from Genji opting to look at the floor, a spectacularly less interesting thing. Genji scoots down against the couch and pokes him in the arm with his foot, shaking him from whatever reverie he worked himself into. 

“Well?”

“The full moon is in three days.” McCree all but blurts out, glancing over at Genji only to return his attention to the floorboards. “We need to… I dunno, figure something out I guess.”

“Oh.” His brain is just a well of knowledge and helpful things to say today. He goes to his datapad to check the calendar and sure enough, marked with a big red circle around the number is his little reminder to himself about the full moon. With their meeting of McCree and their week of tracking him and Gabriel down, Genji had all but forgotten about it. Ironic, really, considering their guest. He frowns. “What do you normally do?”

McCree takes a deep breath. “I go to areas that are pretty much isolated, no people, no cities, no towns, no nothin’, so I don’t hurt anyone. After that, it’s all up to the wolf. It’s been, hm… almost ten years, just about, since my last incident, so it’s worked for me so far. Then I wake up naked somewhere,  _ usually  _ in doors someplace abandoned where I guess I deemed okay for the night. A few times I’ve woken up in a tree, and I don’t ever recommend sleeping naked in a tree. Bark burn is a real thing.”

That gets a chuckle out of Genji. “So even someone with a firm grasp on their humanity does not remember what happens on a full moon?”

He shakes his head. “No. It’s sort of… the wolf’s night, you know? I get all the other days, so it’s only fair I guess.”

“So… what do  _ we _ need to do?” Genji asks, pulling himself up onto the couch proper. He brings his legs together, closer to him, datapad forgotten in his lap as he reaches out to close all the floating reports. They weren’t bringing him any information anyway. “Staying here would be bad, right?”

“Bad would be an understatement I think, but yeah. I need to be out there,” McCree gestures out the window, towards the woods far in the distance. “Away from people, so I don’t hurt anyone.”

Genji rests his chin on his knees, thinking. With as much research he and Hanzo do on their targets, their species and their habits, he doesn’t know what to make of McCree; the person nor the beast. He’s never met a werewolf he wasn’t aiming to kill, and if it weren’t for the subtle tell of his eyes shining unnaturally Genji wonders if he’d even ever notice him. There are questions, a lot, too many, that he knows better than to ask. He wants to ask what he used to do in Blackwatch, how they dealt with him, with the others like him, if they could maybe replicate that. Bringing up something he shouldn’t even know about doesn’t seem like the way to go about this. Genji wants to know what he’s so afraid of, and he’s brought back to their scuffle in the abandoned shack.

_ I don’t want you getting hurt. _

He means it, Genji knows he does. McCree wouldn’t have leapt off a cliff otherwise, but this is different. This isn’t something he can control, this isn’t two people stumbling into a problem that originally had not been their own. This is the moon and the pull it has on something McCree knows he can’t control. Genji can’t imagine being at the whim of something like that.

“Here’s what I can offer.” Genji says after a long moment, grabbing for his datapad. He opens up a map of Japan and zooms in close enough that he can fit most of Hanamura itself on the screen. Creating a hard light render copy, he brings it into the air and enlarges it for the both of them to analyze it. There are lines, almost like borders around different areas with seemingly no pattern to them. Pressing a finger against one, the area lights up dimly and a few extra panels open up, facing Genji, with a list of names and time slots.

“Since Hanzo and I are only two people, we send others out to patrol and hunt smaller bounties when we are unavailable. In the winter, we lessen the numbers due to the harpy, but on particular nights like the full moon, we up our patrol numbers. These are all the areas in the Hanamura district,” Genji motions with a small flourish. He taps on several of the areas on the edge of the screen, lighting them up too. “And these are a few areas I recommend we set you up in. They’re far enough away from Hanamura that you won’t disturb anyone even if you manage to get further inland, and I know for a fact that there are no smaller towns out that way. You chose one, and I will call in to let those we have scheduled for that night are off the roster and I will take up their place. No one should bother us.”

There’s a long silence after that, but a thoughtful one as McCree moves quietly -- silently, he has Genji’s attention now -- to sit himself on the other end of the couch and give the map a hard look. Genji wonders where he usually goes to ride the night out. If he had to guess, probably nowhere near Hanamura. They don’t have patrols stationed like this all over Japan, they’re infamous but they aren’t limitless. Instead, they station small groups in key area cities, but nothing as extensive as they do in Hanamura; it’s their home, they’ll do what they need to to protect it.

McCree leans over to poke at one of the larger areas, set Southwest from Hanamura. “This one. They’re just gonna let you go out, by yourself, miles away from the city on a full moon?”

“They don’t have a reason to question.”

“Okay, let me rephrase that,” he starts again. “ _ Hanzo  _ is just gonna let you go out, by yourself, miles away from the city on a full moon?”

Genji makes a face. No, he’d throw a fit. “Hanzo doesn’t need to know.”

He’ll find out, but that’s for a later time.

“Mhm.” McCree leans back on the armrest on his side of the couch. “Well, I don’t want you out there.”

“Tough shit.” That gets a surprised laugh out of McCree. “I’m serious. What if something bad happens out there? I can’t be here if that happens, I need to be at the scene to do damage control. That is not negotiable.”

He can see the other trying to fight to argue this, but eventually his expression softens a bit, the point Genji is trying to make getting across to him. “Fine. But you stay  _ far _ from me, alright?”

“I can handle myself.”

McCree huffs. “Alright.” He goes to get up off the couch, but stops, adding in afterthought, “Thank you for doing this. Thanks for not… thanks for letting me do this.”

Genji only nods, he doesn’t need to ask about what’s unspoken. He could’ve suggested they keep him someplace, locked up, chained, pumped full of sedatives. There’s something animalistic about that, something he doesn’t see when he looks at McCree, even now as his eyes shine brighter than he’s ever remembered them, reflecting off the soft afternoon sun. That’s not something he deserves, so he’ll take his chances with him in the wilderness two nights from now.

 

⭐

 

McCree keeps to himself for the next two days. Genji says he has full range of the suite, barring the two closed bedroom doors, and if he wants to order out he only needs to ask. He isn’t allowed to leave, for safety reasons he says, because the bounty is still on his pretty little head but McCree isn’t stupid. They don’t trust him, and if he were in their shoes he wouldn’t trust himself either, but trying to escape would not be in his favor. He needs the Shimadas, they give him the protection he ultimately needs and with their help, if they finally find some concrete evidence against Talon, they will be his ticket to outing them once and for all. It’s the beginning of a chain reaction that he needs. So he stays with Genji in the suite, a gilded cage with full amenities.

If only the timing were better. This isn’t anything like the week he’d spent with Genji in his estate, where Genji saw to him daily with food and conversation, something to take his mind off the discomfort of their situation. That was, of course, before he knew what he was getting up to, the sneaking around and eventual snooping into his belongings, but that's besides the issue. He isn't avoiding Genji because of a trick they both played. The real issue is the full moon encroaching on him, the pull of it, looming over him and feeding into his fear. A fear that Genji might see him for what he is. There's no controlling himself when the moon beckons, the wolf taking his one night a cycle and thriving.

It's been years since he's had to worry about being around people who are different than him. In Blackwatch, and even Overwatch, he had people to share the problems of a full moon, teach him how to keep a calmer mind in the leading nights, to run with him and keep him in line. He came from the Deadlock Pack with filthy habits, untaught and wild was his wolf, a different side of him. His new family taught and tamed, made the wolf an extension of himself instead. It took many nights and a lot of mixed emotions, but McCree eventually handled himself well, weening off the heavy usage of suppressants. He became dependant on them, and when he lost his home, he thought the control was lost as well. Lena visited him a lot after the subsequent fall of their respective organizations, as a friend and as a fellow were-beast. She helped keep his focus. But it’s been six years he’s spent on the road, a lone wolf, and he can only assume Gabriel keeps a watchful eye on him, always from afar. McCree doesn’t have to worry about Gabriel, he doesn’t have to worry about anyone; he worries about keeping himself far from cities and towns, away from people. He’s afraid of slipping back into his old routine, wild and unkempt, just a force of nature as the moon sings to him. He’s afraid of hurting people.

_ I know what a monster looks like _ .

He’s afraid Genji might see the monster he tries to hide.

There is also the issue of Hanzo. Perhaps the both of them, but Hanzo keeps his interests focused. He isn’t sure how to bring it up to Genji, or if he should even ask -- and of course, he thinks, he should ask, why not? It isn’t like Genji asked to look through his personal belongings, so he has every right to ask about two blue  _ things  _ emanating from Hanzo’s arm like some kind of magic.

_ We are cursed with dragon’s blood _ .

The incredible vagueness of what Genji had said a little more than two weeks ago rings clear in his memory. While what had manifested from Hanzo’s arm were certainly no dragons, McCree had felt the energy coming off him in waves, the same feeling he felt when he’d watched them spar together, a strange and otherworldly thing. Mystical, almost. He wasn't sure what he expected when Genji told him they had dragon’s blood, that it was complicated, but  _ that  _ wasn't it. Vaguely, McCree remembers Hanzo’s tattoo, two swirling beasts between thunderous clouds against his forearm. He wonders if Genji has one too, if they're renditions of what lies inside them.

That isn't why McCree is keeping to himself, it's just another mystery of the Shimadas he knows Genji won't tell him about.

Morning brings around a rather frazzled Genji, he can hear it in his voice. He thinks he's talking to Hanzo, the tone is just familiar enough, but high in pitch and irritated. Hanzo must have found out about their full moon rendezvous and is giving his brother his opinion or three. While McCree is, to his knowledge, a single child, he knows the feeling of being the object of protection, underestimated but not out of disrespect. He understands the other side of things too, so he can guess how Hanzo is reacting on the other end of the phone. McCree wishes he could chime in, for what it's worth he doesn't want Genji with him either.

He's afraid.

Genji has been keeping to the living room, multiple datapads sprawled on the ottoman, the couch, his lap, several files and maps and documents floating above them. He's cross referencing what Hanzo is sending him, digging for decades old files. Overwatch might have had information about what he's looking for, but it wasn't anything McCree had grabbed out of their database before the government locked it all away. It's unfortunate, but the Shimada Clan is not without their resources, they'll figure it out. When McCree’s stomach grumbles at him for food, that's where he finds him, pacing around the half circle in between the hard light files. He's buried in it, focused, biting at his thumbnail unconsciously, a habit McCree has noticed lately. His body language is different, it's stiff, not at all the languid carefree attitude he usually carries himself with, all hard edges and jerky, small movements. This is the dangerous heir of the Shimada Empire he's heard stories about. Talon will have a hell of a force to reckon with, and McCree can't help but smile a little at the thought.

The floor creaks underneath his weight, a purposeful movement but it startles Genji all the same. He snaps his focus to the bedroom, McCree halfway out the door, and his demeanor shifts, softens.

“I wish you would make a little more noise,” Genji turns to face him fully, smirking. “I might forget you're here.”

“Sorry, you seem real into everything,” McCree vaguely motions to the airborne mess. “Didn't wanna bother you.”

“Hm, I could use the distraction though,” he winks as he climbs the couch, letting his knees sink into the cushions as he leans forward over the back of it. “How about it?”

Unconsciously, he reaches for his hat, realizes he isn't wearing it, and opts to thread his fingers through his hair instead. “What did you have in mind?”

There's a moment of silence between them, comfortable, lulling into familiar territory from two weeks back. Genji leans further so that he's practically draped over the end with his cheek pressed against his arm. He's wearing a pair of dark green sweats today, riding low on his hips so that McCree can just see a sliver of his lower back and the telltale signs of a tattoo winding its way up his back. Genji hums like he's thinking about the answer, the answer McCree is sure he already knows, but he likes to tease so he humors him.

“How does takeout and liquor sound?”

McCree chuckles warmly. “That bad huh?”

“You have no idea.” The facade falls for long enough that he can see the fatigue eating at Genji. He laughs quietly, a small sound, and the walls are up again. “So? You look like you need a distraction about as much as I do.”

“Yeah…” he's been treading so carefully around Genji lately, perhaps a little alcohol would do him good. Because nothing bad has ever happened around alcohol. “Your pick on the takeout.”

Genji offers him a wide, sharp grin and gestures gallantly towards the kitchen. “Your pick of the liquor then.”

McCree wanders into the kitchen and locates the liquor cabinet with relative ease. It's a small thing, but fuller than it probably should given its limited space. There are quite a few he doesn't recognize, his trips to Japan aren't exactly for leisure, so McCree gravitates to those he does. He spots a couple different brands of plum wine, not entirely his go-to for alcohol, but a pleasant taste. There is, of course, the ever prevalent sake, something he's indulged in a handful of times when he's stayed at smaller establishments. McCree eyes the thick, dark bottles of whiskey, fingers trailing over the glass in idle thought. Whiskey can get dangerous, he doubts this stuff is the watered down dirt he's used to in the rundown bars in Santa Fe. Sake might be safer, newer for his palette, but his hand is already snaking around the neck of an unfamiliar whiskey. In the other room he can hear Genji on the phone, a light and cheery tone. He wants to ask if there's anything off limits, anything he and Hanzo are saving for something particular. The bottle he has in his hands now looks expensive, a honey brown with gold foil around the top, an impressive label curled around its girthy middle, but he can't seem to find a year on it. He puts it back and opts for another, less fanciful bottle, his heart set on whiskey.

When McCree finally returns to the living room, bottle in one hand and two tumblers in the other, Genji’s already off the phone, tells him he ordered from Rikimaru but that it'll take a while. He's fine with that, their food is always delicious and worth the wait. Genji reaches out over the couch to inspect his liquor of choosing.

“Ooh, the Hibiki -- that’s a nice one. I figured you for whiskey, but I was sure you would have gone for the twelve year Yamazaki,” Genji hums, already twisting open the glass top.

“Was that the darker liquid, gold trim?”

“Mhm.”

“Almost. Put it back, it looked expensive,” McCree answers. “Figured you two were saving it for something.”

Genji takes one of the tumblers from McCree’s other hand and shakes it, making a face and shrugging. “Hanzo isn't much of a whiskey drinker. He likes his high end sake, plum wines and all that.”

He begins to pour McCree’s glass first as he asks, “And you?”

Genji grins, sharp and knowing. “If it tastes good and does its job, I'm not all that picky.”

McCree snorts at that, kisses the edges if their glasses together once Genji’s done pouring. “Sounds like my kinda drinkin’ partner.”

The other lifts his glass into the air before they down a good two thirds of their drink respectively. McCree hisses a little at the hard, hot burn that settles in his chest, but it feels good, feels right. It's already a nice distraction, but he reminds himself to be careful. Genji, on the other hand, wastes no time finishing his first glass and goes for a second, seems to nurse that one a little better.

“You sure you should be drinking?” Asks McCree.

“I'm going in circles rereading these documents, I need a different angle and a break.”

“An inebriated angle?” He teases lightly and Genji laughs.

“Mm, maybe.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

He motions towards the mess of floating files before flopping down into the couch. “Be my guest.”

There isn't much. Genji has places circles on maps, maps that look like they date back to the 2030s before either one of them were alive. He puts a recent map on top of an older one, and in the corner of his eye he can see Genji lean to one side and rest his cheek on his hand, sighing softly. Nothing has changed in the geography, but knowing Talon they wouldn't. The outpost in the valley had been carved out from a pre-existing cave, there wouldn't be any physical signs to differentiate the environment much. McCree can only assume it's the same for the rest of them, and puts the maps away to the side.

News articles litter a good portion of the left side, facing towards the window. The sun is beginning to set behind the building, casting long shadows over smaller businesses. Clouds are forming in the south and McCree hopes it doesn't snow tomorrow. Perhaps the winds will sweep in early tonight, leaving fresh powder in the morning. Turning his attention away from the window, McCree reads through headlines; some date back to the Omnic War when Talon had been prevalent and more a public threat. Some of the articles have pictures and he skips over them quickly. They paint the great Commander Reyes like such a hero, the hero McCree feels he never got treated like while he was in Blackwatch. He wasn't stupid, nor privy to people’s privacy; Jack Morrison got the promotion over Gabriel and it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out why. There are a few photos of Jack and Gabriel together, posing formally for journalists as they're herded to and fro. That seems like eons ago, well before McCree, before this mess. He leaves the articles alone for now.

The documents aren't in English and aren't at all helpful to McCree. Genji talks him through what most of them are, business dealings, meeting reports, the majority from their father’s reign. He's trying to make a connection between it all, he's sure there's something his council of Elders isn't telling them. McCree asks about them, their purpose, and he gets the general rundown. From his tone, it sounds like he isn't on good footing with them, and wonders how Hanzo feels about them.

“They are suppose to advise us, and most do. It's just…” Genji pauses, huffing an exaggerated sigh. “The pseudo leader Yori is overbearing. I feel like he pushes Hanzo too much towards what he wants, and though he says it's best for the Clan, this and that, blah blah blah, it isn't. He's being selfish. And oh, if I  _ breath  _ wrong it's the end of the world and Hanzo needs to reign in his little brother.”

“They sound a little outdated,” McCree chimes in over his drink.

“They  _ are _ .” Comes the hasty reply, but Genji backpedals after a second or two. “Mm, a little, maybe. Hanzo was groomed to be heir, but despite that I think they might feel the sudden change in leadership might have been too soon, too quick. Whiplash.”

“Oh, that's not good for the elderly.” Genji laughs, prodding McCree in the thigh with his foot. “What was so sudden about it?”

“Death is pretty sudden.”

It takes a second or two to connect the dots before he's sheepishly hiding behind his tumbler, raising it a little in a respective toast. 

“Sorry to hear that.”

Genji hums, loses his eye contact with McCree. “It isn't that I don't trust the entire council, just Yori, maybe a few others close to him. The way he dismissed the idea that Talon could be here in Japan -- the way he dismisses  _ everything _ .

“You know,” he leans forward a bit, loosely. “After Father died, Hanzo and I wanted to look into the history of dragons in Japan. They are a rarity everywhere, but we have had our share of sightings. When we went to look through our files we found them bare, which, for the most infamous hunting clan this side of the world, is bullshit. We asked the Elders about it and Yori said there has never been anything, we have never had dealings with dragons.  _ Bullshit _ .”

McCree fidgets a little where he stands, wondering quietly if he should push the subject.

“Not to sound like a skeptic, but why isn't that believable?”

Genji laughs, but it's hard and abrupt and lacking in mirth. “Our history is built on dragons. Our fucking  _ clan symbol  _ is dragons. Hanzo and I are even rumored to have dragons’ blood. How do we not have our own simple history in our databases?”

“Is that what that was?” He's asking before his brain can catch up to tell him otherwise. He blames the whiskey. It isn’t. “In the valley, when I caught you, Hanzo --”

“So you  _ did  _ see that.” The other finally looks up at him from the couch, eyes a little wide. He looks to be fighting whether or not to go on, and when he speaks it's abrupt. “No use hiding it, I guess.”

“Well, you could keep up that mysterious vibe you wear so well,” McCree offers, cocking an eyebrow.

That gets a softer laugh out of him. “No it… it's fair, I think, that I should tell you.”

The guilt seeps a little into his voice and McCree can't help but feel a little triumphant at that. Genji goes for the whiskey first, filling up his third glass.

“I told you, we aren't actually dragons, we are human, but we possess a… gift? I like to call it a gift, the Elders less so. Regardless, we are blessed with spirit dragons.” He looks up expectantly, like McCree will understand what that means, the weight of it, but he just blinks slowly. “That's what you saw. Hanzo’s spirit dragons.”

Another breath of silence. “Those worm things?”

Genji snorts. “No! Yes… sort of. That is the first time that has ever happened, we aren't sure how to utilize it to it's full potential. Hanzo panicked and… the fact that he even got them to manifest is impressive.”

“And you?” McCree motions. “Do you have a tattoo and worm dragons like him?”

“I assume so, yeah. I've never done what Hanzo did, but you have felt it, right? You asked after you watched us train.” Genji sets his drink down and gets up, turning away from the other.

He bunches the hem of his shirt in his fingers and pulls up, the fabric gathering around his shoulders to expose the rest of the tattoo McCree had gotten a small peek at. It's one dragon, green scales and fiery orange tuffs of fur gliding down its back. Down the middle of his back, curling up his spine with its mouth open in a roar, claws splayed, nearly ripping through the sky. It remains untouched by raised scar tissue that litter the empty parts of his back. One gets very close, a thin line from his left hipbone across his back almost reaches the flared end of the dragon’s tail. McCree reaches out to trace it with a gentle finger without thinking, and at the sudden contact he can feel Genji flinch a little. Up the scar and straight onto the dragon where the skin feels even warmer, the life behind the decorated skin almost thrums with another that isn't Genji’s, the low lying energy that whips and whirls around him when he fights is just beneath him, he can feel it. Human, Genji says, but McCree has never met a human quite like this.

“Did your father have this gift?” He asks, voice quiet on his lips, like he doesn't want to disturb the air between them.

“No. If he had, perhaps Hanzo and I would have better control of it.”

“What about your ma?”

Genji tenses beneath McCree’s light touch, but relaxes after a breath. His weight starts to fall back, slowly, and what was once a light touch of fingertips dissolves into an open palm, keeping Genji’s weight up and balanced before it stops at his chest, solid and warm. McCree isn't sure where to put his hand, resting, for now, on the scar on his hip. There's a tingling sensation on his chest and, for a moment, he thinks it might be his wolf, but the beast is quiet. Awake, but quiet. It's the tattoo, the warmth of it bleeding through his shirt.

“You know, it's never reacted like that before.” Genji finally says, ignoring the previous question.

“What do you mean?”

“When you touch my tattoo, my back feels warm and tingly. Not in a threatening way, it’s not the same feeling when I fight,” he looks over his shoulder at McCree. “Do you feel anything?”

His hand moves back to the tattoo, sliding over the scar tissue trail until he doesn’t feel it anymore. It’s hot against his palm. “The same.”

“And your wolf?” He leans into the touch a little heavier, purposefully.

McCree sighs, pushing back against him in a way that’s telling him to quit it. “Alright, I get it. I won’t ask about your mother.”

The faux expression of surprise on Genji’s face is damn near devilish. “What?  _ Me _ ? Distract from a question I don’t want to answer? I can’t believe you would accuse me of something like that, I’m hurt.”

He leans back even further, causing McCree to take a step back. The tattoo is a constant swath of heat against his hand and chest, not an uncomfortable feeling but a strange one. His wolf remains quiet, but alert as it’s always been when he’s around Genji. It doesn’t react to the tattoo, but it had when he saw Hanzo’s. McCree wonders if it’s due to the atmosphere now as opposed to what he felt in the valley. The energy there had been rough, electrifying, the feeling of pins and needles dancing across his skin as he fell. This is different, it’s an almost comforting feeling, gentle waves of energy tickling the palm of his hand, his chest.

“Hey.” Genji lulls his head back, resting it in the crook of McCree’s collar. “You’re thinking so hard I can hear you. My distraction does not work if you are distracting yourself.”

“It wasn’t workin’ anyway sugar.”

“Mhm,” he grins up at him. From this angle McCree can see the dark brown hair of his roots between the forest of neon green starting from his widow’s peak. “Your heart is racing. I can feel it.”

It is and it feels like a caged bird somewhere in his throat. He can smell the whiskey off Genji’s breath from here, a light puff of warm air on his neck, beneath that the smell of eucalyptus in his hair tickling his collarbone. He can hear his own heartbeat thumping loudly against the back of the other’s head, in tandem with Genji’s heart he can practically feel against his back on his hand, through the tattoo humming with a calm energy that almost doesn’t match the air between them. McCree tells himself he’s being careful; he chose the whiskey, traces up the intricate tattoo, weakly pushes Genji off without any real gusto behind it, moves his hand back down the other’s back, tracing down the length of the dragon to find the scar along the tail, curls his fingers around the hipbone sticking out from the top of his sweatpants and feels Genji lean into the touch --

The phone in the kitchen rings and they both jump, but only McCree chuckles at their predicament. Genji looks positively put out, trying to hide a frown as he pulls his shirt back down to answer the call. He catches it though, and when he offers Genji a smug little smile the frown only deepens.

“Don’t give me that look.”

“I dunno, I think the phone wins for best distraction.”

“Shut  _ up _ .” Genji tries to keep the sternness in his voice but ends up slipping on a chuckle as he rounds the corner and disappears into the kitchen.

 

Their dinner interlude is quiet, save for the sound of silverware hitting bowls and soft chewing. Whiskey is poured in slow increments; they’re looking for a distraction not a party. Even still, Genji is always about two glasses ahead of McCree who nurses whisky much more than he’s used to. The late afternoon sky that had settled when McCree left his room is now early evening, clouds darken the sky and threatening a fresh blanket of snow for the morning. The sun behind the hotel casts long shadows that reach the dark blue horizon in the distance, covering the living room in a low light. When the food arrives Genji flicks the overhead light on, the chandelier that McCree can’t help but find a little out of place, and puts it on a dim setting before joining the other man on the couch. He hopes it snows tonight and not tomorrow, the fresh powder will feel nice to run through no doubt but if it snows again it’ll slow him down. Not to mention Genji will be out there with him, and he already looks like he hates the cold as it is.

They sit on opposite sides of the couch as they eat, their spoils for the night splayed between them carefully. McCree is sitting crisscrossed leaning back into the corner where the arm meets the back cushions, his food cradled in the crook of his legs, while Genji is lounging as best he can without folding his legs over the food, slouched enough that his shoulders lay across the armrest and his dessert is balanced on his chest. He’s been picking at it for a while, the same sharp and sticky dessert he’d been eating when McCree had spotted him outside Rikimaru weeks ago. He’d stabbed him with the wooden stick spearing the round doughy desserts, and though it hadn’t been the worst feeling in the world, the honey coating had definitely left the wound stinging and uncomfortable. It looked good, whatever it was. Genji had gotten him soup, amongst an almost buffet of other things, but it’s a favorite of his from the restaurant. It’s comfort food, something he’s been lacking of for a while.

The ottoman has been cleared of datapads, Genji deciding that he’ll get no where tonight, especially with the alcohol in him. McCree doesn’t blame him, he can’t remember all the times he’s spent late nights trying to compare notes and Overwatch files with hints and clues Gabriel had left him only to get nowhere. A fresh pair of eyes in the morning would do him some good, though they would most likely be planning for tomorrow night come morning. McCree plans to stay up for most of the night, get to sleep in the early morning so he’ll be rested for the night to come. He isn’t sure about Genji, though if he continues on with the whiskey the way he is he’ll be asleep very soon depending on how well he holds his liquor.

It starts to flurry when they’ve finally finished their meal and placed their leftovers in the fridge. They settle on the same couch as before, though McCree sits closer to the middle now and Genji has the liberty of stretching out, legs bent over his lap as he rests his head on the armrest. McCree doesn’t mind so much, it’s comfortable and quiet, and soothing watching the snow pick up outside the floor to ceiling windows. He’s itching to smoke, one cigarillo left in his pocket, but it’s less to destress -- the whiskey is more than helping -- and more so to give his hands something to do. Beside him Genji is engrossed in his phone, and given the pinched expression it might be Hanzo. McCree doesn’t pry, but he does slide a hand into his pocket to root around for his last smoke.

“Hey, um,” he starts quietly, just to get the other’s attention. When he sees his eyes flick up to him in silent acknowledgement, he continues, “Is it alright for me to smoke in here?”

“Yeah.” Genji replies distractedly. “Go ahead.”

McCree waits a second or two to see if he’ll add anything else substantial to the conversation, but he doesn’t and simply taps away at his phone. With the cigarillo out, he fishes for the lighter next, attention split.

“Everything okay?”

He lets out a low hum. “Mm, yeah. Don’t worry about it. Just Hanzo being Hanzo.”

McCree chuckles, placing the cigarillo between his lips. “Oh yeah?” He says around it. “What’s that mean?”

Genji seems distracted again, the divot between his brows pinching further until he hears the click of the ligher and he remembers he’s part of a conversation. “He doesn’t want me going out tomorrow. You know, older brother stuff.”

“He cares about you,” he pauses to light the end, shutting the cap with a sharp sound. “And I kinda agree with him.”

That earns him a hard look from over his device, fingers stopping mid-sentence. “I do not need chiding from both sides.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

McCree lets him be and they fall back into a comfortable silence once more. The first inhale of smoke stings hot but pleasant in his chest, and he leans back against the plush cushions, head back and eyes shut as he holds it for a moment more before blowing it out slowly. The room fills with the spicy scent, relaxing him further in ways the whiskey hadn’t. His tumbler is still half full, almost forgotten on the ottoman where the rapidly decreasing bottle of Hibiki sits. Reaching for it requires Genji to move his legs, and he doesn’t feel like bothering him right now to do it. Besides, he has his cigarillo for the moment. This was the distraction they needed, he thinks. Food, alcohol, and a last smoke before the full moon.

His wolf is a little more awake now that the night has come and the moon rises, just on the cusp of being full. It’s lurking, waiting, pressing against the back of his mind and no doubt causing his eyes to shine. He opens them a moment, casting a quick glance at Genji. His expression is a little softer now, but no less engrossed in his conversation with Hanzo. He closes his eyes again and brings the cigarillo to his lips for another slow inhale. It’s on the third or fourth, he hadn’t exactly been keeping count, that he feels Genji shift beside him. When he opens his eyes he’s there, face a little too close to his own.

“Can I have one?” He asks innocently.

“Sorry sugar, this is my last one.”

“Then share.” It’s indignant, intoxicated, and McCree can’t help but chuckle around his smoke as he blows it out. “Come on!”

“Alright, alright.” He gently pats Genji’s thigh to move as he leans forward to grab his drink. Downing the rest of it in one smooth motion, McCree taps the edge of the glass with his cigarillo, depositing the ash inside before passing it to Genji. “Easy, it really is my last one.”

“I know how to smoke.”

“Greedily, yeah. Savor it.”

Genji purses his lips at him and blows a raspberry. McCree has to give him credit though as he chuckles at him, and watches as the other takes in a slow drag, holds the smoke, and blows it out steadily.

“See?”

“Mhm, now give it here.”

“Not so fast! One more,” he leans away from him, stretching his hand out holding the cigarillo into the air. “One more.”

Genji’s a lot looser with a bit of alcohol and food in him, much more than McCree remembers him being weeks ago. It’s a different side to this odd hunter he’s found himself; the trickster, the professional, and whatever this is. He wants to find Genji somewhere in all of it, the real Genji, and he feels like he’s seen a glimpse or two; at breakfast when he spoke about his father, again in the shocked expression after he caught him in the valley, the moment between the two or three glasses of whiskey Genji had drank earlier. McCree likes those moments where he’s open, not exactly vulnerable, but real. This isn’t it, the Genji who’s got a cigarillo hanging from between his lips like it belongs there -- and he’ll be the first to admit that it sure as hell looks like it does -- and beckoning him over with a crook of his finger. It’s just another side to this multi-dimensional human being.

Despite thinking better of it, McCree follows the gesture, leans a little uncomfortably on his side towards Genji who’s grinning like the devil, all sharp edges. Despite the telltale signs of what’s about to happen, McCree stays there, a few inches of space between their faces and Genji inhales slowly, with purpose this time. Despite being careful -- and now that’s a lie, plain and simple. The very second McCree left his room, he’s been anything but careful from humoring Genji’s distraction of food and liquor to this moment where time seems to stretch, Genji’s legs over his lap and their faces mere inches apart. No, not careful, but despite his wishes to do better on that account, McCree lets it happen.

Genji tilts his head up just enough so that their lips line up, not quite touching but McCree can feel the brush against one another when he opens his mouth to show off the thick, swirling smoke he’s been holding on to. One of them exhales, the other inhales, two very deliberate motions as the smoke dances between the minimal space they’ve left. McCree doesn’t get it all, but it’s enough that the taste of earthy spice catches on his tongue. Genji grins wide, smug, the movement enough that their lips brush once more before the other is moving away.  He hands the cigarillo back.

McCree’s heart is thrumming in his throat. He wants to do that again, and he knows he shouldn’t.

“Sorry.” Genji says so suddenly that McCree flinches.

“For what?”

“For that.” He licks his lips. “Your eyes are shining.”

“Don’t be.” McCree unconsciously licks his own. They taste like whiskey and smoke. “It’s fine.”

Genji lifts himself up so that he’s sitting up and wraps his arms around his legs loosely. “You’re tense. That was meant to do the opposite.”

“It’s fine,” repeats McCree.

The cigarillo slowly burns away in his hand and only when the ashes start to crumble does he realize it, taps it against his empty glass, and brings it to his lips. He knows he shouldn’t do it again, and he doesn’t, for about two minutes after Genji does it. McCree can hear his heartbeat almost too loudly in his ears as if it were his own. His flesh hand moves up towards the other as he inhales, gathering smoke. Fingers tickle the short ends of Genji’s hair at his neck and slide around the nape of it, holding him in place though he feels like he might not have to. He’s pliant in his hand, even more so when McCree turns to him and presses his lips open mouthed and flush against his. It startles Genji for a split second before he’s pressing against him in return, in earnest, a hand coming up to brush the underside of McCree’s unshaven jaw. The smoke doesn’t pass between them nearly as smoothly or neatly as it had earlier, but neither of them seem to care. Genji’s lips are whiskey warm against his own, a little chapped near the middle but soft. McCree makes sure to linger there a moment as he pulls away, applying the smallest bit of pressure to the bottom lip. The hand at his jaw tenses as he tries to move away, so he stays there with his forehead pressed against the other’s, eyes still shut.

“You’re still tense.” Genji says after a moment, breathless.

“Because I shouldn’t have done that.”

“But you did anyway.”

“You’re some kind of intoxicatin’,” he chuckles despite himself and opens his eyes, meeting Genji’s.

“I have that effect on people,” replies Genji, proudly. “Why not do it again?”

“Because you are also  _ intoxicated _ .” McCree begins to pull away in earnest this time, sliding the hand away from his neck to push against his chest instead.

That earns him a pout. “What a gentleman.”

“Part of the southern charm, sugar.” He smiles. “Package deal.”

Genji laughs at that and eases off, though not completely. In lieu of being directly in front of McCree, he scoots a little closer and nestles his head in the crook of his shoulder. His hair tickles McCree’s neck, but otherwise he’s unmoving. They’re quiet a while after that, he doesn’t ask for another shared smoke from his cigarillo and lets McCree smoke in peace. It isn’t until he crushes the bud out at the bottom of the tumbler that Genji speaks up again.

“It’s more than that.” It’s almost unprompted, out of context from a thought process Genji didn’t verbalize.

“What is?”

“Why you won’t kiss me again.” He doesn’t look up, just simply leans against him. “What are you afraid of?”

McCree blinks down at him, but his bewildered expression is lost. Genji’s eyes are shut. “Perceptive aren’t you?”

“I’m not that drunk.” He can feel him smile against his shoulder. It fades a bit, his tone taking on a sadder tune, “Is it me?”

“No.” He answers quickly. Maybe two weeks ago, sure, when the thought of approaching a Shimada,  _ lying  _ to a Shimada made his chest tight. But Genji isn’t all teeth, neither of them are, but Genji’s softer. They’re a little more alike than he’d originally thought. “It’s complicated.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Doesn’t feel so good, does it?” McCree huffs, moving to poke Genji in the forehead with a metal finger.

Genji pouts, but says nothing in return. He knows he’s right.

Outside, the snowfall thickens and there’s sure to be a few inches of new snow come morning. The wind is the only thing they can hear this high up, howling between the buildings and whipping the snow around. It’s a pleasant backdrop. Absently, McCree wonders where Gabriel is, if he’s found shelter, an unnecessary worry given he’s the one who always pulls McCree to safe havens during stormy weather.

“Hey Genji?” He calls out quietly after a while, and when he doesn’t answer he tries again, shimmying his shoulder a bit. “Hey.”

No answer. McCree looks down at him draped across his shoulder, asleep. It’d be cute if they weren’t in uncomfortable sleeping positions. Shaking his head, he moves Genji off with gentle ease, lying him back down across the couch and substituting the armrest for one of the pillow they’d tossed onto the ground to make room. He removes himself from underneath him, venturing to the guest rooms to grab the comforters from each bed, throwing one over Genji when he returns. McCree chooses a different couch to snooze on, though he isn’t feeling all that tired quite yet. Even so, he hunkers down for the night, wrapping himself in soft linens, and listens to Genji’s light snores until sleep eventually takes him as the sun’s rays begin to shine over the horizon.

 

⭐

 

It’s on the very cusp of the afternoon when Genji wakes, and does he regret waking. Aesthetically, floor to ceiling windows look fancy, but they do virtually nothing to hide the sun’s early morning rays from blinding him, the tinted shading on them not quite heavy enough. It takes a moment for him to get up to speed, where he is and why exactly his blackout curtains aren’t working, but he isn’t in his room but on the couch in the living room taking the brunt of the late morning sun. He sits up, and even that’s regretful. His head swims, the taste of whiskey and smoke and dinner mulling around in the back of his throat. He licks his lips and remembers last night in pieces, the important parts first -- kissing McCree, sharing smoke -- and the lesser ones shortly after -- he needs to call Hanzo when he wakes up, give him the details of their departure for tonight. Genji sits on the more important memories; soft lips, the subtle scratch of his beard, the gentle bite on his lower lip. He licks them again, tries to find broken skin with his tongue but finds none.

On the couch to his left sleeps McCree, bundled up and facing towards the back of the couch. Slowly, and as quietly as he can without stumbling over his wobbly legs, Genji gets up and peers over the mountain of shoulder and comforter. He stifles a laugh when he sees the small, pink tip of his tongue poking out from between his lips. He kissed those lips last night.

Genji would like to kiss those lips again.

But not now. For now he’ll settle for a quick picture of McCree sleeping with his tongue partially out and a call for room service to bring up brunch.

 

⭐

 

At Shimada Castle, in the far southern part of the real estate overlooking a short valley and forest line is the Elders’ Sanctuary. It’s oddly quiet for an afternoon, empty save for one, as all the others have prior engagements they need to attend to that conforms perfectly to schedule. In the center of the half circle room, sitting right in the middle of the crescent moon shaped podium is Elder Yori, pseudo leader. He’s enjoying a light lunch in the dimly lit room, popping a wedged fruit into his mouth as he casually fingers through an email sent late last night. It says nothing, but it’s the attached files that do the talking. Many of them are blurry, an action shot of what he can assume is Hanzo and Genji, running through a thin tree line as a shadow in the sky bears over them. Another, this one of just Hanzo, uninteresting and it’s gone. The next few hold just as little meaning, the Shimada brothers against the dreaded harpy, a cultivated fear among Hanamura. It’s only when he sees the red of a serape that he stops idly flipping past photo after photo.

Yori tuts as he brings his phone out from his pocket, dials one number before putting it to his ear.

“I’m sending you an address. Stake it out,” he instructs with ease, leaning back in his chair. “Follow them. Do try to keep the Shimada unharmed, but the wolf? It’s all yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry about how long this took me! A lot was going on, and I wrestled with this chapter and how I wanted it to flow. Thank you so much for everyone's continued patience and support, it means the world ❤
> 
> Feel free to hit me up on madamerioulette@tumblr


	8. Myths and Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One more hour passes and the sun disappears, the sky darkens completely, and the moon glows bright against the white snow around him, illuminating it in an almost mystical fashion. A howl far off in the distance startles him, long and loud and sad as it tapers at the end.

The plan is simple. The area for the night is clear, Genji’s gone over the perimeters with McCree half a dozen times on the way over, he knows the boundaries, the landmarks to let him know he’s going too far. There’s a small chance that he might, McCree warns, and that’s exactly why Genji wants to be out here tonight. If that happens, their clan members will engage him and no one wants that. McCree doesn’t want to hurt anyone, and Genji doesn’t want him hurt either, it’ll be a goddamn mess on everyone’s hands. He stays just in case he needs to play damage control, and despite the fact neither Hanzo or McCree want him out there, they relent for that reason alone. Genji is in charge of keeping ahold of his things in the duffel bag he carries with him; extra clothes, his accessories, the six shooter, his arm. There’s also a medical kit inside, he’s instructed, not the best equipped box in the world but it’ll do should something go ary. It’s the best case scenario that nothing goes wrong, but they need to be prepared for anything. Genji leaves fully equipt, both swords strapped across his back, pocketed throwing knives, and his uniform, a darker color scheme than his usual attire. It’s for show, mostly, otherwise he’d have dressed more comfortably, taking his short sword for his only weaponry, but it would look suspicious to anyone who crossed his path if he was bent on wearing his fur coat and casual clothing. As it is, it’s probably raised a few eyebrows that Genji’s out tonight without Hanzo, without backup period, but his brother assured him he would be left alone. No one but the Council questions them, and Genji trusts he’s got them under control.

They haven’t talked about last night. Genji wants to, but it’s not exactly the right time. They spent all afternoon prepping for tonight and now that they’re trekking through the woods, the sun just touching the horizon and the promise of a long night a couple hours away, he thinks the last thing McCree wants to talk about is last night. To be fair, McCree hasn’t spoken much at all today, but he doesn’t think it has anything to do with him. Maybe, it might, he doesn’t know and he wished he did. He wished the other would say what’s on his mind instead of staring at one thing for seemingly too long and blinking away like he got lost in himself. His eyes haven’t stopped shining since last night either, and they’ve only gotten brighter as the day went on. Genji wants to ask about how it feels, what he’s going through, if there’s something he can do to help, and whenever the words escape him he’s met with a prompt  _ it’s fine _ . It isn’t, but McCree is proving to be more stubborn than either Shimada right now. He keeps his distance, about a foot apart from Genji as they walk. He wouldn’t sit on the same couch when they planned, sat pressed against the door in the car as Oni drove them over here, and has barely looked at him since their arrival. There’s a chance that it’s timing, the full moon, the weirdly developing vibe between them that’s sitting unresolved in last night’s whiskey. Genji wonders maybe if he pushed too far last night, but McCree has pushed further only to stop himself just before…  _ something _ . It’s grating on him.

“How are you holding up?” Asks Genji, glancing up at the other. “You alright?”

“Fine.” Comes the unfortunate, familiar reply. He’s staring off at the sun, like watching the time sink away. There's something far away in his voice.

Genji huffs quietly. “You certainly do not seem  _ fine _ , McCree. If it's me --”

“It's--!” McCree starts, a little loud as he snaps his head around to look at him. His eyes are practically glowing they're so bright. He stops, breathes in slowly, starts again. “It's the full moon, the woods is full of hunters, and I don't want you out here. So  _ sorry _ if I'm not the shining example of calm right now.”

Genji chews the inside of his cheek and only hums in affirmation, turning away from the other. They fall silent and continue walking, only the sound of the crunching snow beneath their feet and the waking of night birds to fill it. They walk until the horizon has half the sun beneath it, Genji stopping as he pulls up the map on his phone.

“We are about a kilometer in -- a little less than a mile. I will stay in this area until morning.”

McCree nods, listening, and begins to undress as little as he can. Whatever he doesn't want lost or torn goes into the bag; his belt and buckle that reads  _ BAMF _ in big gold letters, his boots that jingle has they drop in, his gun holster with accompanying gun, and his metal arm is the last to go in. McCree stands there in just his shirt and slacks, looking a little lost for a moment before his eyes focus and he starts to turn and leave. He stops as if remembering something.

“You'll stay right here.”

It's not a question. Genji answers, a little exasperated, “Yes.”

“ _ Don't _ follow me.” There's something akin to desperation in his voice. It's familiar, reminiscent of when they spoke for the first time.

With less attitude, he nods. “I won't. Promise.”

Still, McCree hesitates. His hands clench at his sides and his breathing is shallow, controlled. He looks as if he wants to say something more but doesn’t and finally turns away from Genji to trot shoe-less through the snow. When he’s meters away McCree turns back, and all he sees is the dark silhouette of a man and a pair of silver eyes glinting back at him.

An hour passes and Genji realizes that it will be an exceptionally long and boring night.

One more hour passes and the sun disappears, the sky darkens completely, and the moon glows bright against the white snow around him, illuminating it in an almost mystical fashion. A howl far off in the distance startles him, long and loud and sad as it tapers at the end. His communicator beeps and one of the scouting party leaders tags him. Genji settles him, orders them to stay in their designated perimeter, but to stay alert. He has to play the part, at least.

He hopes McCree doesn’t decide to howl again.

Another hour and Genji is getting restless. He walks a small perimeter, climbs a tree to survey what he can, clamors down, walks the perimeter he’s made for himself once more, following in the deep tracks he left. He checks his phone, opens the small map they use to keep tabs on their scouts. No one has wandered into his area, though the dots have shifted a little ways in. Genji isn’t on the map, it’s purposeful. He doesn’t need anyone wondering why he’s traipsing around in circles when there’s a werewolf out tonight.

Genji sighs. Perhaps he should’ve asked Hanzo to join him tonight, if only so he could have someone to talk to and make the time go seemingly faster. And as if the gods of misfortune heard him, he hears a rustle nearby and the soft crisp sound of snow beneath feet, more than two. Genji places a hand on his short sword preemptively, side stepping towards a tree for cover. It isn’t until he can see them, two figures -- one tall and slim, the other wider in the shoulders and just a hair shorter. -- walking towards him with purpose but without threat. As they reach just close enough for him to see them in detail, he can make out the all too familiar uniforms they wear. They don the uniforms of the Shimada Clan.

“Hold.” Genji calls from the shadows. They stop, looking in the vague direction of his voice. “What are you two doing out here?”

They answer when he slips out from his hiding place, hand still resting on the hilt of his blade. The shorter one speaks, the taller -- a female -- staying quiet and huddled into herself. She’s bundled more heavily than her companion.

“Young Master,” they both bow to him as the man speaks. “Lord Shimada sent us to assist you on your patrol tonight.”

No he didn't. “I don't require assistance. Sorry to waste your time, but you need to leave.”

“But--”

“That is an order.” Genji says firmly. “I will notify Hanzo in the morning that I told you to go. You won't be in any trouble.”

They hesitate a moment, the woman looking over at her companion quietly. She bows first, graciously and low, and the man follows suit a little stiffer, eyes never leaving Genji.

“As you wish, young Master.” She says quietly. “Do forgive us for the intrusion. We were merely following orders.”

“Then follow mine.” He’s getting impatient, nervous. “Go.”

They do so, turning on their heels and tracing their steps from earlier, their pace quicker than before. Genji watches them until they’re out of sight before he digs out his phone to call Hanzo. He knows he didn’t send them, he wouldn’t, that would put their new alliance in danger of being founded. The only other person who knows about it is Oni, and they know the bare minimum, a trustworthy omnic. He calls Hanzo’s personal phone and it barely gets one ring in before he picks up. Genji can’t help but smile a little, rolling his eyes; that worrywart was waiting for a call.

“ _ Genji? _ ”

“I’m fine,” he starts, just to put his brother’s mind at ease. “I have a question. Where are you?”

A beat of silence. “ _ My office. Why? _ ”

“Talk in vagueness,” Genji lowers his voice. It carries further in the silence and stillness of the night. “Did you send out two patrolmen to follow me?”

“ _ No. _ ” There’s a shuffle in the background, of papers he thinks.

“Well I got a very interesting visit from two people who said you ordered them to come and assist me.”

There’s a stretch of silence, Hanzo probably full of questions but remembering to keep his end of the conversation minimal. “ _ I did not. _ ”

“I didn’t think so. I bet if we took a look see at the trackers they wouldn’t pop up on that either. So we might have a problem.” Genji begins to follow the tracks in the snow. “I’m going to follow them. I’ll be in touch.”

Hanzo leaves with a, “ _ Stay safe _ ” before the line goes dead. He feels bad calling his brother with such little information, something else on top of McCree running around tonight, but he wanted to make sure Hanzo truly hadn’t sent them out before he incapacitates them. That would be bad for business, beating up their own. 

Genji follows the tracks quietly and at a steady pace. He takes a peek at the GPS tracker he’d been looking at earlier and true to his hunches, he does not see anyone in his area. The closest are those many miles off, and unless those two can cover ground in a blink of an eye, they aren’t on record. Genji unsheathes his short sword and quickens his pace.

It takes him about fifteen minutes before he finds the tracks curve back and around towards the center of  the area, at an angle so that they wouldn’t cross paths with Genji yet again. He hesitates. There’s an all too real notion that if they knew where Genji was then they know about McCree, and if they know about McCree then they might be here for him. He promised he wouldn’t follow, that he’d stay put, but this is the type of trouble Genji was talking about; if they find McCree, things will go south very fast. To hell with it, he can apologize later, and so he follows the tracks at a good pace, mindful of his surroundings.

There is no sound of McCree since his initial howl an hour or so ago. It’s a good thing, he thinks, the less attention pulled his way the better. But the snow beneath them is fresh from the night before, footprints will be easy to spot, and though McCree is rather stealthy for a man -- beast -- such as he is, he can’t imagine it will be difficult to find a large, burly wolf in the bright light of the moon. Genji continues tracking the dual set of footprints that draw him nearer where he shouldn’t.

Eventually, Genji catches up to them, two silhouettes in the distance between the towering trees. They’re huddled together, murmuring amongst themselves. He moves closer, steps near soundless as he keeps to the shadows, unseen and unheard. Genji stops behind a thick trunk surrounded by brush and strains to hear the conversation, though he’s only able to grab bits and pieces of it, unconnecting words that make up a bigger picture. As he carefully peeks around the foliage, Genji can spot in the snow large, deep holes that weave into a pattern and lead out towards the center of the area. Footprints. McCree’s no doubt. The two strangers are pointing at them and then up at where they lead and begin to follow them. Genji shadows behind, keeping his distance.

They lead to an open field, covered in a thick layer of fresh, powdery snow. The tracks get messier, the drag of sharp claws evident between the heavy footfalls. It looks a little uneven, a smooth divot into the snow makes an appearance every so often when it gets too deep. It’s been almost two weeks, not enough time to get reacquainted with walking on only three paws, but Genji doubts it will slow him down enough to make him a vulnerable target. He scans the horizon of the field, the soft snowdrifts that layer the field, and as his vision veers towards the shadowed area he sees something familiar in shape. The shadow he once saw on the roof of the dingy shack before it leapt at him, blending into the snow piles. The wind blows just enough that when flakes of snow powder off the tops of the hills, the shadow ruffles, long fur unsettling until the wind dies and it’s one with the environment once more. Genji’s heart stops somewhere in his throat, eyes darting to the two trespassers. They seem completely engaged in the tracks, following them as they lead opposite that of the stationary facade. Genji doesn’t move to follow them, not quite yet, and keeps his focus solely on McCree’s unmoving form. It’s only when their voices become muffled and far off that the bundle of fur shifts. Two bright round eyes turn to face him, unmistakably looking at Genji. They are wide and wild, otherworldly like he's never seen them. 

He does not see McCree in them.

It moves, swift and quiet through the night, still crouched in shadow behind the snowdrifts. It follows the strangers at a decent distance away and Genji follows the movement with his eyes. He knows he has to follow too, but waits a while before he does. The footprints aren’t going anywhere, but McCree is, the wolf is, and Genji doesn’t want to get too close. It isn’t fear that keeps him, it’s the promise he’s eventually going to break -- if he hasn’t already -- and the inevitable mess this is going to turn into. He has to follow, it was the whole point of coming out here against both McCree and Hanzo’s wishes. This will turn ugly and, if he can help it, he wants one of those two strangers alive.

Genji and McCree traverse on opposite sides of the intruders; the wolf is more in step with them, but keeps a careful radial distance from them while Genji stays back a bit and to their flank. He splits his attention between the couple and the wolf, knowing full well who the real threat is in this situation. The woman pulls a small tablet from her jacket after some time, opens it up and produced a map of some kind, Genji can't get a clear look. Whatever it is, whatever they see, it causes them to stop. They look back in Genji’s direction, vaguely but definitely not on accident. He swears under his breath and flattens himself against a tree. Chancing a glance, he finds McCree’s wolfish form missing. Great.

“Mister Shimada,” the woman coos, the sound of a soft metallic  _ click _ following shortly after. “How kind of you to join us.”

The snow shifts in two different directions, one of them is getting further, the other circles. The grip around his short sword tightens, knuckles growing white under his gloves. He wants one of them alive for questioning, but he doesn't want to make the first move. He wants to wait until McCree does something -- if he's even planning on doing something, perhaps he only means to watch -- to preoccupy himself with one so Genji can focus on the other.

“Come now, no need to hide. We are after the same thing, no?” She continues, closer than before. That means the man must be moving away. “We are all hunters here. Here to hunt the werewolf.”

When Genji tries to peek around the trunk, a stray bullet flies by, silent, and hits the bark of the tree, sending pieces flying.

“Or are you a traitor to your country?” Her voice hardens. “Roaming around with a monster you've sworn to protect your home from. Tsk tsk, Mister Shimada. That's no way for an heir of the infamous Shimada Clan to act.”

“Claiming you belong to our organization when you do not is damnable in its own right,” Genji shoots back, sheathing his sword in lieu of his throwing knives. He slides three out, each between his fingers, as he continues, “Who do you really work for?”

“That --”

She's interrupted by a long, menacing growl that crescendos into a throaty snarl. The sound alone is massive, all encompassing, sending a cold shiver down Genji’s back. He can hear the sudden movement from everyone, but doesn't dare to chance another look around the tree. He can hear the wolf barrel towards its target, its prey, no longer the stealthy hunter it played before. He can hear the strangled cry of the man as jaws snap shut around something, the throat maybe. He can hear the soft, wet crunch of something he doesn't want to think about right now.

Genji moves when he knows he has an opening, the distraction of a team member too great to pass up. He spins around the trunk and hurls his knives at the woman, aiming to disarm. She has her gun up and pointed at McCree; he's feasting on her partner, muzzle buried in a clawed open ribcage. He's still choking on his blood, the last sparks of life spasming out of him. Two knives land into her forearm, the other right beneath her armpit, and the gun drops from her grip. Using his momentum, Genji brings the bag around, swinging it to daze her as he hits her square in the face. She falls back and Genji doesn't give her time to recuperate, he drops the bag and climbs on top, using one hand to grab her by the wrists, holding them above her head, and the other takes the hilt of the throwing knife under her arm and twists slightly. She bites down on her tongue, emitting a pained noise as her eyes focus weakly on the man above her.

“Let’s continue our little chat, hm?” He tilts his head to one side. “Who are you working for?”

She tilts her own head back into the snow and rises up just enough to spit in his face. He blinks, unphased -- he's had much worse -- and twists the knife a little deeper.

“Try again.”

Behind him comes a low growl and the sound of paws treading through snow. Genji spares a glance over his shoulder and sees McCree prowling towards them, thick strings of saliva and blood dribbling from his mouth as his lips pull back in a snarl. His eyes bore into him, glowing silver and bright, unrecognizable.

“McCree.” The wolf continues forward, eyes flickering between Genji and the woman before stopping to stare at the latter. His lips curl further, a growl beginning to resonate from him. “McCree,  _ don't _ . I need her alive.”

If he can understand him in this form, he's making no effort to show it. McCree pushes himself up on his back legs, towering over the two humans on the ground and, without even sparing a glance at Genji, shoves him away backwards with a long, clawed hand on his face. He practically picks Genji up, mindful of his nails under the soft skin of his throat, and tosses him.

“ _ McCree _ \-- !” He yells through the air, landing ungracefully into blood soaked snow. The body of the other man is unrecognizable now. Genji scrambles away from it, looking to the wolf. “ _ Stop _ !”

McCree has his hand around her face and is squeezing, one foot is digging its claws into her abdomen. She's screaming, barely, one of her hands dislodging a throwing knife from her body and stabbing into McCree’s massive bulk of an arm. He doesn't seemed even remotely phased. Genji runs to him, knowing full well he can't do much but he tries anyway, digging his fingers into the thick fur of his arm. He pulls uselessly at him, yelling for him to stop despite the blood beginning to rivet from her face. The muscles beneath his hands flex and McCree snaps his head around, snarling in Genji’s face. Beneath them is an unfortunate wet pop and the sound of blood gushing onto the snow, splashing against their feet. McCree lets go of the caved in mess, the body dropping to the ground limp and lifeless, and settles his attention wholly on Genji, the only one left alive in the area. He begins to stand to his full height and charge towards a tree, pinning the other between the massive wolf body and the rough bark. Genji lets out a pained whine and tries to push back with little success.

“McCree, it's me!” 

The wolf practically roars, pulls back and slams him against the tree again in a wild response.

“ _ McCree _ !” Cries Genji, pulling at the fur on his arm.

He looks at him, tries to catch his eyes, the far away look in their silver glow. Untangling his fingers from his arm, Genji reaches for his face, carefully, and is met with the warning snap of jaws. He doesn't flinch away, but he does stop moving forward, palms out to him.

“Jesse, please, it's me. It's Genji.”

His heart is thundering in his chest, leaping up into his throat, no doubt McCree can hear it. To his credit, his hands don't shake, not from fear or cold, as they stay outstretched. Genji keeps his eye contact, looking for give, something beyond the shine of the wolf that's consumed McCree. The wolf stares back, unmoving, though his snarl progresses, lips curled up and back sporting long, sharp fangs slick with saliva and blood. Heavy breathing ghosts over Genji like a warm, stale blanket, but the growling subsides to a low rumbling in the back of his throat. It seems like an eternity before anything happens, the two of them staring, still in the cold night with Genji pressed up against a tree and two chilling bodies lifeless, bleeding into the snow. The moon glows bright above them, casting short shadows as it reaches its peak. The light catches the wolf’s eyes and they flicker, reflecting off of something that is there.

Slowly, ever so slowly do the lips relax over the threatening teeth. The pressure against Genji’s sternum gives way enough that breathing is a little easier. His back slides down the tree, the wolf arm no longer holding him up, and his feet sink into wet snow. Genji uses one hand to steady himself against the tree, but leaves his left hand up facing McCree. He leans down enough so that the rough, damp texture of his nose brushes against the naked flesh of Genji’s fingertips and sniffs loudly. He has to wonder what he smells like right now; nothing like the night before that's for sure, smelling of fresh takeout and whiskey. He has to wonder if this McCree remembers that smell mixed with his last cigarillo, the spice of it mingling between their lips. He has to wonder if McCree remembers the taste -- better yet, perhaps not. Genji doesn't want to be on the menu tonight if he can help it.

Recognition flutters behind McCree’s eyes as he lowers his head a little further, not yielding to Genji but in wordless apology as he rubs his muzzle against the rough palm of his glove. It isn't McCree, not his McCree, but something in him resonates enough to know he is not the enemy. He backs away from Genji, creating ample space between them.

“Thank you,” Genji bows his head to him. “I'm sorry I broke my promise but I -- hey!”

McCree moves his snout up into the air and sniffs loudly before wandering off, ignoring the other now that he knows he's no danger. Genji huffs indignantly, watching him lumber off without a care. This is not his McCree, he reminds himself, it's his wolf, a different being within the same body. It's weird to think about, mostly because Genji’s never had to think about it before. They've killed werewolves on many different nights, eyes lost to the wild, almost in the same way McCree’s is. The only difference is that he knows McCree. If he knew the others they've killed, would they still attack him, he wonders. He doesn't want to think about it.

A rustling at his side jostles his thoughts back to the present. McCree’s got his face, or what he can fit of it in the bag he dropped earlier. It's got a little splatter of blood on it from the nearly unrecognizable body freezing into the night, but the duffel is durable enough that it won't soak through to his things. Eventually he finds what he's looking for, seemingly, and pulls out the once neatly folded serape and a myriad of other things by accident. McCree doesn't bother putting them back, instead walking back over to Genji with a corner of the serape hanging from between his teeth. He looks down at the other expectantly. Oh good, because the Lassie conversations earlier in the week had been such a blast.

“Good boy?” Offers Genji.

The wolf growls in return, ears pinned back against his head. He puts his muzzle forward, as if offering the serape to him. Genji takes it, still confused but holds it to his chest all the same. McCree nudges it with his nose, shining eyes still staring at him.

“Do you want me to put it on you?” He gets a frustrated chuff in response, eyes narrowing. Genji rolls his eyes, heaving a soft sigh. “Listen, these charades are not any more fun for me. Do you want  _ me _ to put it on?”

The ears perk up and he leans forward, sniffing at the blanket. Genji looks down at it in his hands. Smelling like something familiar might help him keep himself in check. It's a good idea, and it's warm to boot. He nods at him, understanding, and begins to gently unfold the accessory. It was a gift, he remembers McCree saying, and though it's frayed and torn at the hem Genji doesn't want to add to that. He wraps it around himself over his coat, trying to compensate for the length by wrapping it around more times than he's seen McCree. It probably doesn't look quite right or as good as the other makes it look, but it's warm and smells like McCree. The wolf noses forward and sniffs at him before pulling away completely, finding success.

“I wish I had brought your hat….” Genji mumbles in afterthought.

With that settled, Genji starts investigating the two bodies, or rather what's left of one and the whole of the other. He starts with the woman, closer and more put together, crouching down to sift through her blood soaked and sticky gear. The coat peels off with some difficulty, beyond that is the Shimada Clan attire and Genji wonders where they got these to begin with. Are they missing two of their own, dead and buried somewhere? Or were these two once loyal to the Shimadas, now gone astray? Neither one of those options is something Genji wants to think about, the latter far more than the former. He can't imagine why anyone would go against them; Hanzo is strict but he is no dictator. The tablet from earlier has blood smeared across it once Genji’s able to pull it free. It's one of their standard issue, and when he opens it up he finds the map of Hanamura spread across it, little lights dotting the area. Genji is on the map, blinking undisturbed. He frowns, he knows he doesn't have a locator on.

His attention is pulled to his phone, the only other thing on him besides his communicator that might hold something malicious. Balancing the tablet on one knee, he fidgets with his device, checking applications, the settings, and eventually turning it off altogether. The light remains, blinking on his location. Genji tries the communicator next, turning it off -- nothing -- and on again. He bounces it in the palm of his hand a few times before looking up towards a clearing between the trees and tosses it as hard as he can. It sails up in a clean arch and before he can watch it land the dot on the tablet begins to move.

“ _ Fuck _ !”

McCree spares a glance at him from several yards off. He’s been digging around and sniffing loudly as if searching for something while Genji rifles through their assailants things. The other pays him no mind and sets the tablet aside, rummaging through pockets and bags. He finds two extra clips that were never used and suddenly remembers the gun she’d dropped earlier. Genji opens it and the bullets are all wrong. His chest twists uncomfortably.

“McCree?” He calls over his shoulder. The wolf seems preoccupied, angrily shifting back and forth between something, nose in the air, eyes scanning the forest. Genji calls for him again.

This time he hears and bounds towards him, claws raking across trees along the way to release some form of pent up tension. The very second he sees the clip in Genji’s hand McCree snarls at him and takes a heaping step forward, nearly looming over the other. Genji falls back on his elbows to keep eye contact. His movements look overly controlled, stiff as he crouches down over him, as if he isn't used to small motions and gentle touches. He wouldn't be surprised, his muscles tense and coil beneath the mass of fur. The smell of blood is thick in the crisp air, not helping any, and the adrenaline from earlier is still beating rapid fire in his chest, loud enough that in the sudden silence Genji can think he hears its rhythmic beat.

Long fingers damp with blood wrap around Genji’s ankle and is slowly pulled up between them. The silver talons on his footwear are smudged dark with blood, little rivulets trickling down his boots as its weight is shifted. McCree taps one of his gnarled claws on the point of them, eliciting a muted  _ tink, tink, tink _ . They've gone through this before.

“Talon.” Says Genji, with all the confidence in the world. Something awful curls in the pit of his stomach, souring.

He needs to reach out to Hanzo. Genji moves to grab his phone in his pocket, but McCree nearly barks at him, the sound tapering into a solid growl. He removes the hand, palm out and facing the wolf.

“I need to get a hold of my brother. These people were wearing  _ our  _ uniforms under the guise of the Shimada Clan -- if Hanzo is in any danger I have to let him know,” Genji explains calmly, resoundly. He isn't going to budge on the matter, but it doesn't seem McCree is going to either, teeth bared and drooling over his uniform. “I am out here to make sure no harm comes to you by my people. I will not say anything about this, or you.”

McCree manages to loom over him a little more, letting go of Genji’s leg in lieu of balancing on one arm in the snow. His expression softens a bit, his lips only quivering, ears up and alert. Genji slowly pulls his phone out and taps Hanzo’s name under his recent calls. He waits, and though it picks up halfway through the second ring Genji can’t ignore the tight feeling in his chest.

“Be vague.” Genji starts. “I’m fine, but we have a situation.”

“ _ Keep it short, I am in a meeting. _ ” Hanzo replies curtly, though only for show. He hears a hand cover the receiver and the quiet, gracious words that aren’t for him, “ _ Please excuse this interruption, Elders, it will be quick. _ ”

There’s the sound of shuffling, perhaps him leaving the room. “The two I called you about earlier, the ones who said you sent them -- they were Talon. They attacked me, McCree killed them both and --”

“ _ Is he with you? _ ” Hanzo whispers into the phone.

Genji looks up to meet McCree’s eyes. “Yes.”

“ _ Someone reported two dead, a werewolf attack. The Elders asked all available teams to check it out and called me in to confirm it. I have to Genji, it would look suspicious if I didn’t. _ ”

“Who the hell reported it? I’m the only one here.”

“ _ I don’t know. _ ” More shuffling. “ _ Do what you have to, I’ll be back by tomorrow evening. _ ”

The phone clicks dead and Genji swears, perplexed. As if this needed to be any more complicated. McCree is still hovering above him, head tilted just so in a quiet question.

“You need to move, now.” He says, bringing up the map on his phone. A few teams are heading this way, those closest and from the South. “Go North. Something’s going on and we don’t have time, I’ll meet up with you later.”

McCree growls, but not at him, seemingly at the situation as he stands and lifts his head up, sniffing the air before snapping his attention North. He wastes no time and bounds off into the night. Genji watches him until he’s out of sight, taking the moment of reprieve to gather himself. There’s a lot buzzing around his mind, too many questions without enough answers, but they need to take this one thing at a time. He breathes in once, slowly, holds it for a second more before letting it out just as slow. Genji cleans up his mess; he needs to pin this entire thing on McCree or else it will look suspicious. He dislodges his throwing knives from the woman’s arm and hand, tucking them away after cleaning them as best he can. The two clips he found in her pack remain in his care, though he doesn’t touch the gun. He zips her coat back up, leaves her lying nearly faceless in the snow and doesn’t bother with the other several feet away. The duffel bag and McCree’s things that are spilled out over the snow need to be put away, as does the serape wrapped around Genji’s shoulders. With it all tucked away neatly, he pulls the bag over his shoulder and zips it up. Within the hour, three teams have arrived, six people in total.

It’s a mess.

No one knows who reported the attack; two teams say one of the now dead clan members called it in before being killed, the other thought it had been Genji. Someone tells him they’re sending paramedics over to bag them, look them over, study what Genji already knows but for all the right reasons. A group of them start putting together evidence, the gun Genji left, the tablet he accidentally left and curses himself when he sees it go into the evidence bag, the dead man’s weapon -- another gun -- but they don’t dare touch the bodies. One of them looks a little green around the neck, a young man, newer if Genji remembers correctly. He’s staying as far away as he can without looking like a coward, pretending to be on guard when he really doesn’t have to be. They’re asking Genji questions -- did you see it, where’d it go, did you witness it attack us, it, it,  _ it _ . He lies; he wasn’t here but heard the sounds, by the time he got here it had already been reported, he didn’t see  _ him _ , doesn’t know where  _ he _ went. When twenty long minutes rolls by with nothing more to do, Genji gets proactive.

“You two,” he points to the team with the one squeamish fellow. “Stay here, wait for the paramedics. The rest of you, follow the trail heading East.”

The set of footprints from earlier, the ones the Talon agents had been tracking, are still there. He doesn’t know where it’ll take them, but he knows at least it won’t take them to McCree.

“I’ll follow the tracks North. My communicator’s busted, if anything happens send a flare and immediately contact Hanzo.”

“But the Elders said for us --” One of them starts, but does not finish.

Genji whips his head around to the one that’s spoken, a veteran in their ranks, someone who should know better. The hard expression on his face has the group of them bowing their heads in respect. He’s getting tired of the Elders putting their noses where it doesn’t belong, superseding Hanzo  _ again _ , giving orders where they have no right to be. Genji’s never understood their place within the clan, Hanzo does but it doesn’t make it any better.

“Remind me,” says Genji, tone almost playful as the beginnings of his nearly signature sharp grin spread across his face. “Who is in charge of our illustrious Shimada Clan?”

It’s quiet a tick, something they can get away with when it’s Genji and not Hanzo.

“Lord Hanzo Shimada.”

“And second in command?”

Another second passes. “You, young Master.”

Genji nods his head once. “Do not forget that. Go.”

Four of them rush off, the other two stand stock still in his continued presence. He relays to them the same courtesy, send a flare, contact Hanzo should there be any complications with the matter at hand. They nod in understanding, no backtalk this time, and Genji makes his way North to follow McCree’s tracks.

It becomes obvious rather quickly that McCree can cover quite a bit of ground in a little less than an hour. There are moments where he looks as if he stops, circles back a little, and continues moving, as if waiting for Genji, the tracks muddled in small circles. Halfway through the trail, Genji goes digging for the serape again and wraps it messily over his shoulders as best he can, careful as to not snag it on nearby branches and brush. Further still, he sees a thick patch of blood bleeding into the snow, a mess between McCree’s tracks and, upon further inspection, hoof prints. A deer, if he had to guess, but he’ll never know. By the time he finds McCree, whatever it is he ate is nothing but bone. He’s busy gnawing on one, one sticky, bloody mess of a paw holding it in place as he grinds his teeth against it. If he smells Genji, he doesn’t care to give him his attention until he’s cracked the bone enough to get to the marrow. With his tongue lapping at it generously, he glances over at the hunter, uninterested, and puts his full attention back on his midnight meal. Genji keeps his distance and waits, watches, and tries not to think about the continued mess they are sinking themselves into. He begins to doze after a while, a half sleep that garners him no rest. McCree wakes him full with a gruff, low bark that has him jumping in place. It seems he’s finished his snack and is ready to get going, wherever that may be. 

The wolf is very different from McCree, and at the same time very similar. He won't pretend that he knows enough about McCree to psychoanalyse him, but there are some obvious tells. His attitude, for one, is different. McCree seems so careful sometimes, like he's trying not to step on eggshells, and other times he is robust, playing confidence when he might not have enough on his own, like he knows the cards in Genji’s hand and his are better. He's good at bluffing, at hiding, at lying. The wolf is both bark and bite, uncaring of staring eyes and judging hearts. There's nothing to judge, though, Genji only sees the other side of the coin he's been staring at for over two weeks. And even if he can't see McCree in those otherworldly eyes, he finds him in the details. He's in his controlled motions when he comes up to sniff Genji, coming off gentle as much as a beast his size can. He's in the small nudge at his belly, pressing the wet nose against the serape to cow him elsewhere. He's there when he searches for a place to rest, somewhere safe and as comfortable as they can get in the middle of the forest. When he finds a hollowed out tree, reminiscent of their first encounter, the tree healthy and thick, he is there, motioning with his muzzle for Genji to go in first.

Genji remembers last night, strewn across McCree’s lap, warm smoke and lips on his and the hesitation behind it all. He asked what he was afraid of and in this moment, face to face with the true beast that hides behind a human, Genji thinks he knows. The wind blows mean as it bites across his cheeks and nose, and the tips of his fingers that lift up towards McCree. His lips twitch slightly, begging to upturn in a snarl as the other reaches closer, his eyes flitting between Genji’s face and the hand approaching him. He is cautious, rightfully so but in the same breath it isn't. Genji won't hurt him as he sees too much of a story long since told in his childhood when he thinks about their own story, his and McCree’s, unfolding here in the middle of the woods on a full moon night. When his hand meets fur, it continues forward, burying itself in the mass of its warmth before meeting the skin and muscle beneath it. He's like his own personal walking heater he's so warm, hot even. The muscles are tense, and Genji soothes his thumb over him, not so much a pet as it is a small caress. McCree doesn't move.

“I know what a monster looks like,” says Genji, his voice almost a whisper but he knows the other can hear it, sees the ears twitch softly at the sound. “And I do not see one before me. I'm not afraid of you or what you are, so please, relax. Trust me.”

McCree’s ears flick forward and he rumbles gently, unmoving still. Maybe it isn't trust that's the issue, all night he's had no problem turning his back to Genji. Maybe, then, it's fear, a fear McCree didn't want to go into the night before. It isn't Genji, he sounded far too confident in his answer for it to be him, not to mention the wolf and his seeming uninterest to Genji as he followed. It isn't Talon; they are a beacon of anger and vengeance, but not fear.

“What are you so afraid of?” Genji asks, moreso to himself than McCree. He wouldn’t get a concise answer, and as it is the only thing he gets in return is another soft growl. “Why didn’t you want me here?”

This is not what he expected, far from it. He’s hunted werewolves before, full moons, half moons, new moons; they’ve been wild, untamed beasts, true monsters from old movies and storybooks. McCree made it sound as if he were no better, and he might have been, years ago, when he was that untamed and wild boy sitting in an interrogation room. When the wildness in his eyes never left him and there was anger fueled his heart. That isn’t there anymore, as far as Genji can see, he isn’t sure what else would make him the monster he thinks he is. 

A quiet moment passes and McCree begins to lean into the touch a little, garnering Genji’s attention from his own thoughts. He’s crouched forward, enough that he isn’t completely dwarfing him but he’s still in his shadow. It would be cold if he wasn’t radiating body heat like a furnace. McCree quietly rumbles at him, moving his head forward to bump against his shoulder. He smells a little like wet dog and deer carcass. Despite that, Genji allows him to push further until he has no other choice but to take several steps back to accommodate the new weight. His muzzle moves around to check him in the arm, effectively corralling him towards the open hollow of the tree. Genji puts his free hand on his forehead and pushes back gently, understanding his meaning.

“Are you going to rest too?” He asks.

McCree chuffs, shakes himself a little and motions inside with his head. Genji is about halfway inside when he hears the other trot off somewhere else, and when he turns around he sees the tail end of the wolf trailing back the way he’d come, perhaps towards the creek he’d passed.

The forest settles. Genji feels like he’s ten again, chasing the outskirts of his family’s property, the very edge of the woods. He can’t go in, Father forbade it, but he’s never been very good at listening so he goes in just enough that he can still see the Estate between the treelines. Everything is so big when you’re ten, everything is greater than it really is, overwhelming almost if it weren’t for a child’s overactive imagination. Trees are like giants, the ankles of a being far larger than could ever exist. Snow drifts too steep for him to climb are like mountains, and at the top he knows he’ll find the treasure, or a dragon, or both. Wind howls, and it’s the sad song of something lost and forgotten crying out to be remembered. An adventure in its simplicity, but it’s that simplicity that Genji craves now, at twenty-six. There are two dead, not their own but playing to be, and a true beast, larger than life, stalking the trees that seem too tall, too much, and a greater fractured mystery that’s begging to be unfolded. It’s not make believe, but sitting in the large, hollowed out tree, curled up under a too big serape smelling of smoke and something earthy, Genji wishes it were. 

McCree comes back after an undetermined amount of  time, Genji wasn’t keeping track, and ducks in under the short opening to the tree. The inside is just big enough that he can crawl in and lay down without issue, but once he knicks the top of his head and growls roughly. He curls around Genji, who moves more towards the middle to allow room before relaxing again, feeling the now somewhat damp fur between his fingers. He notices the blood is gone from him, the smell of wet dog permeating the small area. McCree chuffs as he settles down finally, happy with his current position, and curls further, creating a furry little circle around Genji. He’d say it was a trusting move if it weren’t for the fact he was staring at him, wide-eyed and silver, the entire time. Genji reaches a hand out, slowly, and buries it in the scruffy neck, scratching behind one ear. It flicks back before relaxing, creating a low rumbling that shakes his entire body. With time, McCree relaxes fully, leaning his head on the stub of his arm, but ever watchful. Despite himself, Genji does too, the exhaustion of the night catching up with him as the body warmth lulls him into a sleepy state of mind. The scratches slow and he leans back, buffeted by the mass of fur around his shoulders. His eyelids feel heavy, watching back at McCree who stares quietly, and he doesn’t fight it.

Genji falls asleep to the sound of McCree’s content growling, the smell of wet dog, and smoke.

 

Genji wakes up to the sound of McCree shouting, something intangible in his sleep addled state. He’s being shaken and his eyes snap open, vision blurred and dizzied by the motion. For a moment he forgets where he is, McCree’s worried human face blocking most of his sight until he remembers a tree. They’re in a tree. The morning light is a soft backdrop behind his head. It’s morning, and McCree is human.

“Genji!” 

He shoots up, alert. McCree’s hand is all over him, patting him down, squeezing. He’s searching for something, eyes wide and wet, worried, unable to focus on one thing but they keep coming up to Genji’s face.

“What, what’s going on?” His voice catches up with him, but it’s dry and muddled. “McCree, what --”

“Are you hurt?” He asks, frantic. His hand continues to push and prod, pull at his clothes and shake him to further consciousness. “There’s blood on you, are you  _ hurt _ ?”

“Wh- no. No, I’m fine,” Genji puts a hand around the other’s wrist to stop him. “It isn’t mine.”

That gets him to stop altogether, fingers clenching in his uniform until he’s white knuckled. McCree looks haggard, panicked and on edge with dark circles lining his eyes -- a flash of silver and then brown, that warm dark color -- and his lips pulled together tightly. Genji wonders if he even slept.

“Talon.” Says Genji, watching the panic curl at the edges of his eyes. “They were two Talon agents. And a deer, I think. That’s it.”

“Genji --” his voice cracks.

“It’s okay, I’m fine.”

“What are you doing out here?” McCree shakes him, halfheartedly this time, not meeting his eyes. “I told you -- you  _ promised _ \--”

Genji tells him about what happened, about the disguised Talon agents, the scuffle. He explains the phonecall he had with Hanzo and his suspicions regarding it. The grip on his clothes doesn’t loosen and his eyes still won’t meet Genji’s, but he’s listening and the panic seems to dissipate from him albeit slowly. Genji squeezes his hand around the other’s wrist to garner his attention. McCree’s eyes flicker up for a moment before flitting elsewhere. It only now occurs to him that he’s kneeling above him, naked, in the snow though his skin is still hot under his hand, perhaps freshly transformed.

“McCree, it’s alright.”

“It isn’t.” He twists his arm out of Genji’s grip easily, moving to roughly card his fingers through his tousled hair. “It isn’t, I could’ve hurt you real bad.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I could have!”

His voice scares the birds in neighboring trees, Genji can hear them scatter outside, the snow piled on branches sloshing to the ground. McCree leans back on his haunches, hiding his face in one hand as he tries to center himself, focus on his breathing. He can’t imagine what it must be like to know what you spend one night as but not remember anything from it. To know one half of you remembers but the half that matters doesn’t. Genji wants to ask how McCree thinks he acts during a full moon. The fear that chases him almost seems unnecessary. He doesn’t, McCree doesn’t look to be in any state to answer that kind of question.

“Where’re my things?” He asks from behind his hand, voice heavy.

Genji unwraps the serape from himself and places it neatly between them before untangling the bag off his shoulder and handing it to McCree wordlessly. He takes it and the serape, and gets up hurriedly. Genji gives him his time alone and gets up himself, brushing off the wayward snow that hadn’t yet sunk into his clothes. His pants and shoes are wet; a discomfort, but not the end of the world. McCree starts to dress inside the tree, hunched over awkwardly as he’s much too tall even as a human to stand at full height -- Genji even has to duck so he doesn’t hit his head. Genji gives him his privacy and busies himself with his phone instead. He has one voicemail from Hanzo and a text from Oni. He responds to Oni first, the text a simple message to let him know he’s ready and waiting should he need a pick up. They do, Genji tells him to bring a regular car. He leaves the tree to listen to the voicemail, leaning against the side of the trunk as he clicks to start the message.

“ _ Genji, I’m sending you the autopsy reports when our doctors are finished looking over the bodies. That beast really did a number on them, we can’t visually confirm who they are, but their I.D.s were on them -- _ ” He must have missed them, he hadn’t found them, but when Hanzo says the names, names he knows,  _ people  _ he knows, Genji knows it’s a lie. Hanzo knows it too, by the sound of his voice, but he remains vague, professional. “ _ Hoshi reported the murders, said he saw the werewolf attack them and then run off. _ ” Another lie, Genji thinks frustratedly. “ _ I want to look into a few things before I return, I will be late tonight but I should arrive no later than tomorrow morning. Be careful, little brother. _ ”

The phone clicks dead. His stomach twists and knots. “You too, big brother.”

McCree finishes dressing -- dark jeans, boots, a dark grey thermal, the silly belt buckle, no hat or serape or gun -- and pokes his head out from the tree sheepishly. He looks a little less shaken, but the edge is still there in his eyes, in his movements. He won’t meet Genji’s eyes as he walks out, bag slung over his shoulder with both hands, flesh and metal alike, gripping onto the strap as if his life depended on it.

“You ready to go?” Genji asks, pocketing his phone. McCree nods and the other takes a step forward, hand a little ways outstretched to him. “Are you alright?”

McCree takes a small step back. “M’fine, let’s just go.” 

Genji opens his mouth to say more, brain running a mile a minute, but it shuts. He nods in turn and starts for the edge of the area where Oni waits for them.

 

⭐

 

McCree skips out on breakfast. It’s mid-morning when they arrive back at the suite, accompanied by the thick silence between them. He catches Genji looking at him, raring to say something, but doesn’t when their eyes catch one another and they both look away. The car and the elevator are the worst of it; there isn’t enough room between them, around him, scrunching himself into the corner with a strangling grip on the duffel bag. He can practically hear Genji wanting to talk to him, ask him something, and he quietly applauds the self restraint he’s currently showing. McCree’s in no mood to talk and is thankful for the silence, even as uncomfortable as it is.

The very second the elevator reaches the top floor and the doors slide open, he’s pushing himself off the walls and out of the metal box, heading for his room at the other end of the suite. Genji doesn’t stop him and again he is thankful. He doesn’t want to look at him right now, he doesn’t want  _ Genji  _ to look at him. He slips into his room and shuts the door behind him with the brunt of his full body.

He isn’t angry at Genji and a part of him wishes he were able to verbalize that at some point. It probably seems that way, given his attitude, but he isn’t. Self conscious, sure, upset, maybe, but not angry. The fact that Talon was out there last night was the exact reason why Genji had wanted to come out in the first place; if he hadn’t been there and McCree had still been at the scene of the crime he would’ve been dead, or worse. He owes it to Genji that he still has his freedom, his life, the luxury to feel as deprecating as he does right now.

But he wishes he hadn’t seen it.

McCree wishes with every fiber of his being Genji hadn’t seen him last night. And now he doesn’t want to look at Genji, doesn’t want to see what kind of disgust hides in his eyes, the realization that he’d been wrong about him, that he was a monster, he  _ kissed  _ a monster. McCree hides his face in his hands. He really shouldn’t have done that two nights ago. Something in him shifts, makes his chest feel tighter than it ever has and for a second he can’t breath.

“Shut up…” he says to no one. His voice is watery. “You had your fun.”

His hands come away wet and he hates that he can’t feel it on his left. He pushes away from the door and begins to undress, throwing his things on the bed and floor haphazardly, tossing even the prosthetic to the bed as he heads towards the bathroom. It’s much roomier than the last one and that feels good, he doesn’t want to feel cramped, trapped, despite it creeping up on him in his own skin. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror; he’s filthy, hair matted and sticky, blood stains marr his skin in places, and a half dozen new scars on his upper arm that he hadn’t noticed before. McCree takes a moment to look at them, small slits as if someone had stabbed him with something small. It was silver, whatever it was, as they haven’t healed completely, but they’re small enough that it’ll be gone within the week. He wonders if it was Genji. He hopes it wasn’t Genji.

The shower runs cold. McCree doesn’t do much in it besides stand under the icy droplets, watching the dirt wash off him in little rivulets into the drain. He feels very much like he needs to vomit and focuses on his breathing so that he doesn’t; he doesn’t want to see what he ate last night. In for three, hold for one, out for five.

This is easier when he’s alone. He doesn’t have to worry about anyone seeing him, recognizing him. It’s a night he doesn’t remember and usually doesn’t have to, waking up in odd places and finding Gabriel not too far off, ever watchful. He wonders if he was around last night, watching the story Genji told him unfold. He likes to think if anything bad happened, Gabriel would intervene. It was a similar case in Blackwatch, reeducating his instincts, relearning how to carry himself with civility. It had been a difficult process, he remembers, but those times had been easier. Surrounded by like-minded people, people of similar nature, running like a pack through sanctioned areas around base. Now he’s alone again, and all he can think about is the before, before Overwatch, before Blackwatch, before Gabe. The awful little mongrel he used to be, the lives he took, purposefully, accidentally, he doesn’t remember and doesn’t want to, doesn’t have to. That blood will always be on his hands, and he’s afraid of adding to it.

There’s a soft knock at the door, but he hears it over the water. He thinks about ignoring it, pretending he didn’t hear the quiet call of his name that followed after. He listens for footsteps that never come and eventually shuts the water off with a sigh. Grabbing a towel on the way out, McCree wraps it around his waist before padding over to the bathroom door. He can hear Genji on the other side, heart thumping quickly against his chest. McCree opens the door a crack, just enough to see the other’s face light up in surprise. He showered, his hair is wet and slicked back, the dirt on his face gone. He’s wearing a T-shirt with a video game logo on it, he isn’t sure which, and can’t quite tell if the shirt’s too small or if it’s meant to be a crop top, as well as a pair of sweats. The surprised expression fades away, a small and grateful smile spreading across his face in its place. His eyes look sad, not quite pity, but he sees something on McCree’s face that makes them that way. The redness of his eyes, maybe, or the physical weariness of the night before weighing on him. 

“Hey.” Genji greets, fidgeting in place a little. “I just… wanted to check up on you. You’ve been in the shower a while.”

“I’m fine.” He answers, almost automatically.

Genji reaches out to touch his wrist again, slowly as if silently asking for permission, and when McCree doesn’t say anything about it he continues forward with more gusto. His fingers are warm when they wrap around his wrist, a testimony to how cold he is after his shower. It shows on Genji’s face, the surprise is there again as his fingers twitch against the cool skin. He looks down between them a moment before meeting McCree’s eyes again, and McCree fights to keep his there. There’s nothing judgemental in them and he isn’t sure how to feel about that. 

Genji looks at him the same way he always has.

The grip around his wrist tightens a little, tugs him forward. “Come with me?”

He doesn’t push further than that, instead waits for McCree’s reaction. A part of him wants to go because the only thing he has staying here is the cold embrace of a second useless shower and his own thoughts. He nudges the door open a little wider with his foot. Genji pulls a little more on his wrist and McCree follows. They walk to Genji’s room instead, bypass the plush bed decorated in a few Pachimari plushes, and go straight to his bathroom instead. It’s a little bigger in here, outfitted with a tub instead of just a plain shower fixture, and a larger counter for the sink but otherwise a near carbon copy of his own. Genji lets go of his wrist when they enter, closing the door with a forgetful foot nudge, and heads towards the bath. It still smells like his shower from earlier, a hint of patchouli permeating the air. The scent grows thicker as the bath fills with steaming water and Genji drops a little oil into it. McCree just stands near the sink, leaning up against the counter and switches between looking at his feet and watching the other prepare a bath. It looks methodical, like he’s done this before, giving McCree his space despite their proximity. He wouldn’t read the mood as serious, but it isn’t what he’d originally thought when Genji led him into his room; he expected more of the Genji from two nights ago, lazing across his lap and trading smoke. As the water finishes filling the bath, it’s turned off and Genji turns to him, motioning towards the tub.

“Get in.”

McCree hesitates a moment before stepping forward, thumbs hooked under his towel. He slips it off and slides in, the hot water causing him to hiss a little before relaxing into it, his muscles thankful for the reprieve. It’s a slow descend into the water, easing his body in inch by inch until he’s engulfed in it completely. It feels good, great even, and for a second he forgets Genji is standing next to him. A hand gently touches his shoulder and he looks up at him almost sheepishly.

“Do you want me to stay?” It’s an honest question, as if he doesn’t care what the answer is. McCree feels himself nodding and Genji smiles. “Okay.” 

In the back corner next to the sink he grabs a small footstool and places it behind McCree’s head. He sits and lightly touches his fingers to the man’s temples to bring his head back, resting it on the rounded edge of the tub. McCree allows himself to relax as his hands come up to brush his wet hair back, cold from his shower and the air, and finger combs the knots out. It’s getting shaggy, long, he could probably pull it up into a short ponytail at this point. The ministrations in his hair are light, cautious almost, but as McCree seemingly melts into the bath, voicing no displeasure towards the touches, they grow bolder, short nails raking gently along his scalp. Save the quiet drip drop of water from the faucet, the bathroom is silent. McCree revels in it, as he does the fingers in his hair, still tentative in their touch.

“I’m sorry I broke my promise.” Genji’s voice is quiet, nearly a whisper, but it still echoes in the vastness of the bathroom. “I didn’t mean to undermine your trust again.”

“I understand,” replies McCree with a sigh. “I ain’t angry.”

The fingers in his hair twitch a little. “But you are upset.”

He is. Even while sitting in a hot bath, a warm calming smell filling the air, and Genji’s quiet presence behind him, a heavy knot still sits in his chest. He wants to ask him what he saw last night. He wants to know how he can treat him so sweetly. He wants to figure out if he regrets it, two nights ago.

He wants to stop spiraling into such self deprecating thoughts. 

“McCree?”

He sits up suddenly, far enough from the edge that Genji’s fingers slip away altogether. In for three, no hold, out in a rush of air, “Why are you actin’ like everything’s so normal?”

There’s a beat of silence, the sound of fingers drumming against the porcelain tub. “What do you mean?”

McCree twists around in the tub slowly, afraid almost to look at Genji. He’s just sitting there, more open than he’s ever seen him. It’s almost daunting seeing him without his layers, his masks, hiding something behind each sharp smile or mischievous glint in his eyes. That doesn’t mean he’s laid everything bare, Genji Shimada will always have his secrets, but to McCree, at him, it’s open. There’s no judgement to be seen and that scares him almost as much as thinking it’s there.

“You saw me last night.”

Genji’s attention shifts to nothing in particular, only away, like he’s trying to put the pieces together with what little he’s said. When his attention comes back to McCree, his brows furrow. “Is… that what’s bothering you?”

McCree’s only response is a small noise in the back of his throat.

“I’ve hunted werewolves, McCree. True monsters, lost to the wildness of their nature even outside of the full moon. There’s nothing human in them anymore, not that we can recognize; it’s all animalistic behavior. When I first met you I could tell, it was in your eyes, you weren’t some wild beast. And every time after that too. Last night was… different. I couldn’t see you, but I knew you were still there. You were territorial -- no… protective? Of yourself, you responded to threats, but you recognized me, you knew I wasn’t one. There was control, you had control. I never felt unsafe in your presence.

“I don’t know what you think you are on a full moon, but Jesse McCree you were no monster.”

The pressure in McCree’s chest breaks, too much at first, he thinks, and then relief. It’s relief in a weight being lifted, replaced with something else, something warm, something familiar from years ago. It’s relief in the form of tears that well up until he can barely see Genji clearly and they spill over. He tries to blink them away, lowers his head to shake it. He feels arms around his neck, hands pulling him in gently, and he doesn’t open his eyes to see Genji leaning in so he can rest his head on his shoulder. Genji says something, low and soft, muffled in his damp hair but he doesn’t hear it. McCree breathes in shakily, lets it out in a half whine, half sob into the other’s shoulder. He didn’t know what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t this. 

_ You had control _ .

There used to be a pair of scars across Commander Reyes’s face back when things were a simpler, as simple as government agencies can be anyway. Those were his, McCree did that, scraped the skin right off the bridge of his nose and a bit off the cheek, back when he was young and scrappy and out of control. It was during an exercise, Gabriel barked an order at him and he saw red for half a second, snapped at him, swung a paw out and around to grab at him. It wasn’t deep, he had the reflexes to know better, but there across his face were two fresh, bleeding cuts that any old knife could make. And McCree remembers feeling sick about it, those Deadlock instincts kicking in as if it had been some anklebiter calling the shots instead of his Commander. His control had slipped on a regular mid-day afternoon. It was an accident, that’s what it said on the report and that’s exactly what it was, but that didn’t stop McCree from hiding out in the rafters for a week. It wasn’t the first incident, and it hadn’t been the last, but that it had been against Gabriel was enough that the memory shakes him still.

This morning he woke up to the smell of stale blood and Genji and his mind went back to that memory in a panic. He isn’t sure if it’s better to remember or not, the if and when he loses control, but the thought of either makes his stomach twist.

Genji’s carding his fingers through his hair, soothing him with quiet shushes whenever his breath hitches short of a cry and he hiccups. He’s soaking his shirt through, but Genji holds him there anyway until McCree’s tears stop and his breathing evens out. He doesn’t move right away, the crook of Genji’s shoulder and the arms around him are a comfort he hasn’t had in a long time, a comfort he’ll allow himself today. The day following the full moon gets him clingy, dazed by the previous night’s events. Overwatch gave them the day after to recuperate, leading to massive piles of various animals taking up the lounge and rec room. It’s been a lonely six years; Genji and a hot bath will do.

Eventually McCree pulls away and Genji lets him, watches him slide back into the water up to his chin. A moment passes and he takes in a deep breath, an easy breath, and submerges his face into the water, knees bending to accommodate. When he resurfaces, face less tacky with salty tears, Genji offers to wash his hair and he lets him.

He does this often, Genji says, not the hair washing thing but the bath. Hanzo forgets to take care of himself sometimes, lets the stress build and build until it’s too much and he’s sick with it. Genji tells it like it’s bothersome, but it’s lighthearted in tone. Like he isn’t one to really talk, and McCree wouldn’t doubt it, but he wishes Hanzo wouldn’t let it get so bad. He’ll get wrinkles, Genji chuckles, old ones, not laugh lines. Those are worse. While he leaves him to his pre-drawn bath, he gathers Hanzo’s favorite snacks, tea, no alcohol and that’s emphasised as if they both use that as a crutch in stressful times. McCree can empathize. He puts on a movie they both like, sometimes they watch it in silence, other times they talk over it, sometimes it’s lighthearted, sometimes Hanzo just needs to vent. Genji will play with his hair either way; dry it, brush it, put it up in interesting ways. He gave him Princess Leia buns once, Hanzo had been so into his venting he hadn’t noticed and when he finally realized it he laughed so hard tea came out of his nose. Princess Leia is, apparently, his favorite of the original trilogy.

“Don’t tell him I told you that.”

“Did he pull off the look?” McCree asks, smiling around the question.

Genji snorts, laughing, “No!”

He continues with some funnier stories about him and his brother, stories he wouldn’t have imagined someone like Hanzo being a part of. He’s got more dimensions than McCree had originally thought; he almost feels bad about calling him stiff. Almost. Genji’s voice is a nice background noise, it’s softer than his usual tone, genuine. McCree can tell when he gets lost in the memory of a story, the ministrations in his hair stop when he gets particularly into it, a quick lapse in what he’s doing but McCree doesn’t really mind. It’s the most sincere he’s ever been with him, albeit it silly happenings, it’s something personal.

“You’re pretty close with your brother,” he comments after the shampoo is rinsed from his hair.

“We are all we have, each other,” Genji replies almost solemnly. “Father made it a point growing up that we needed to look after one another.”

McCree nods. “It’s good to have someone like that.”

“Hm. Even if he is a pain in the ass sometimes,” he teases.

“Oh like you’re any better?”

Genji preens at that. “I’m not, that’s what little brothers are for.”

McCree chuckles and leans into the touch again, combing conditioner through his hair. He starts up again, smaller stories here and there to fill in the comfortable gaps. Their father is given mention, their mother in passing, but for the most part he just talks about whatever seems to come to mind. He recalls the few times he saw Overwatch arrive in an attempt to parley, wearing their stark blue uniforms and tilted berets. McCree asks if he was startled by Gabriel’s appearance, he says a little. He knew what Overwatch did after the war, a sanctuary of sorts. They were a ragtag bunch even back in the war, they took in all types, it gave people who were like McCree, like Gabe, like Lena and the others something to look up to. Humans and beasts working together during the war made sense, the greater good and all that. After the war, the U.N. didn’t see so much common ground, they saw a lot of dollar signs in suppressants and medical supplies. They saw a liability, they saw lawsuits. Overwatch saw people, Blackwatch saw the enemies, and for a while it worked. It worked when they went to speak with the former head of the Shimada Empire, and McCree wonders sometimes if it still would’ve worked today if they had had such a heavy ally on their side. Maybe, he thinks.

“My father was wary, I think,” says Genji off-handedly. “He had the Council to contend with, not to mention we don’t always do things… legally. But your Blackwatch wasn’t exactly legal, hm?”

“Nope.”

He hums. “The Council might have weighed in on the decision heavily then. Otherwise, I think my father would have accepted eventually.”

“You think so?” McCree glances over his shoulder to Genji.

“Mhm. We are a hunting clan first and foremost but….” He trails off, staring at nothing in particular. Before he continues speaking, he fixes McCree’s head so he’s turned away from him again, gently nudging him along by the temples. “My father used to tell us many stories of his travels when he was younger. Hanzo and I loved them as children, we were insatiable for them and it was always such a mistake to start them when we had to go to bed. They were always about creatures he had seen, never monsters. He saw things differently.

“My favorite,” he pauses and McCree doesn’t push. Genji starts again, “My favorite was about the time he met a great ivory dragon. It lived in the mountains to the West and a small village near there had put out a contract for it one winter. Naturally, Father took it. So he got his things together and headed out towards the mountains in search of it. It had been a rough winter though, and a storm picked up while he was climbing. He misstepped and slipped and fell, hit his head hard enough to knock himself out.

“But when he awoke he found himself in a deep cave, wrapped in torn cloth, lying next to a crudely made fire that illuminated only a small area. He hadn’t thought that anyone lived up in these mountains, but he just had to thank them for saving his life. But when he called out for whoever might have rescued him, no one answered. He called again, and nothing. When he called a third time, a voice from the back of the cave answered. It was too dark to see, but it was rough in tone, feminine in nature.

“‘Come into the light so I may thank you properly,’ he says. ‘You have saved the life of a Shimada and for that I owe you a great debt.’ But she did not move from her spot in the dark, only laughed and asked, ‘Is that a promise?’. Of course it was, he thought that was a silly thing to ask. He promises and when she steps into the dim light of the fire my father understood why she had been hesitant. It was not a person, but the great ivory dragon he had been sent here to hunt.

“‘You promised,’ she says it like it’s a joke between them, grinning wide and showing all her many rows of teeth. ‘I ask for my life for having saved yours.’ And my father, a man of his word, honored it.

“Father said she had the body of a serpent, long and winding, coiled in the back of the cave across a hoard of many seemingly random objects. Her scales were bright, shining in the firelight, white as the snow. She had a pair of sharp antlers that stretched like lightning bolts, a sparkling white that grew dark and ashy near the tips. Her eyes were a swirling pool of dark blues and purples, otherworldly, he said, like looking into the night sky. She was as terrifying up close as she was beautiful, something to be respected.”

Genji is doing that thing again, McCree notices, where he gets so wrapped up in his story that he forgets what he’s doing in reality. The fingers working the conditioner in have stopped, dawdling by the nape of his neck, but he doesn’t mind. He’s losing himself in the story with him.

“The blizzard outside is ongoing, and Father can’t leave just yet. He shares the cave with the ivory dragon, and finds it strange that she is kind enough to do so. She isn’t at all what he expected in nature. He asks why she doesn’t keep him for money, she says what is a dragon to do with that? She much prefers soft silks, patterned cloth, and he notices that, among a few bits of rusted weapons, her pile is mostly that. He asks why she doesn’t eat him, she says, laughing, ‘humans are bad for the diet; you go straight to my hips’. Also, we don’t taste good, but that’s besides the point, so the dragon said. He asks why the villagers below are afraid of her, and that puzzles her a moment.

“‘Perhaps it is because on laundry day, I swoop in and steal a few of their clothes hanging so temptingly in the wind,’ she says thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps it is because they see a great winding serpent in the clouds on sunny days at the top of this mountain, playing freely. Perhaps it is because humans are so keen on fearing what it is they do not understand. But never have I hurt another being in this land, I have no taste for bloodshed. Am I such a monster for enjoying the warm sun and stealing a few blankets?’

“No, Father thinks, and ‘no’ Father says. And he is glad for it.

“When the blizzard finally ends three days since he woke, Father leaves, but before he can the great ivory dragon slides her tail between him and the cave entrance and pulls him back to her pile. ‘I want something else for having kept you safe and fed all these nights,’ she says with a toothy grin. ‘I want you to visit.’ Father thinks it’s absurd, but she explains that it is lonely up here and no one who has thoughtlessly wandered up here to find her has been so conversational. ‘Usually it is  _ ooh monster _ and  _ please don’t eat me _ . That is no way to have a conversation’. He laughs and says he will visit when he can, with the promise of silks should she stop frightening the village with her theft. She laughs in turn. It’s a deal, and she lets him leave to return back to the Shimada Estate, empty-handed.”

And the story stops as Genji starts to card his fingers through McCree’s conditioned locks again. He patiently waits for him to continue. When he doesn’t, McCree turns around expectantly.

“Well?”

“Well what?” Genji blinks.

“Was that it?” He sounds almost childish, wanting to hear more. “Did he go back to visit her?”

“Yeah, many times.” McCree stares at him until Genji laughs. “Oh, were you expecting more?”

McCree feels his cheeks growing hot with embarrassment and he turns back around in the tub, the water feeling lukewarm now. “You don’t gotta, it was just a good story. I thought there’d be more.”

“There is.” Genji takes a moment for himself before making up his mind whether to continue or not. “He did go back to visit her, many times, and he brought her many gifts. Cloth, mostly, from the markets. The old women crooned over him when they caught him buying it, asking if he was trying to impress a pretty lady. Sort of, he would say. Sometimes he would bring crafts from festivals; pinwheels, masks, anything that looked flashy. She appreciated the gifts, especially the things she would never find in the village. She had since stopped terrorizing them with her theft, as promised, and in turn the village people tried not to fret too much over Father’s decision to let the dragon live. She was no threat, there was no point in killing a peaceful beast.

“Winter turned to spring, to summer, to fall, and winter again. The dragon grew restless. The more Father visited, the less she wanted him to leave. ‘You are so very interesting,’ she said to him one day, tail curling around him to bring him back from the entrance. ‘You are fun and tell me of a great many things you humans do below. I once thought myself superior to you. I can fly into the heavens, towards the sun, dance amongst the stars and sing with the moon. I have an eternity. You do not have these things, and yet I find myself in envy still.’

“‘I cannot tell you of the happenings below if you don’t let me leave,’ Father says. ‘I can’t bring you gifts for your treasure pile.’ But she doesn’t care. She wants him to stay, it isn’t fair that she has to stay here in the mountains alone. Father says he can’t, people would go looking for him and find reason to hunt her again. ‘Instead,’ he offers, ‘Why don’t you come down with me?’

“This gives her pause, she’s never thought about that before. ‘I would need to shed this immortal form for a mortal body.’ Father cannot make the decision for her, and he says as much. ‘Leave, and next you return you will have your answer.’ And Father leaves.

“In two weeks time Father returns to the mountain, the weather calm and beautiful in the early morning. He doesn’t need to climb to the top today to find the great ivory dragon; instead he finds a tall woman at the foot of it wrapped in a great many colorful pieces of cloth and long, white hair that fades to an ashy darkness at the tips, and eyes like the night sky itself. She stares at him expectantly and he stares back, smiling all the while. ‘What are you staring at?’ She asks with a frown. ‘My feet are cold.’ He laughs and picks her up, carries her all the way back to Hanamura.

“And they were married the following spring.”

McCree’s eyes widen, his body stiffens and it must show. Genji stops moving and retracts his hands altogether. He turns in the tub to look at him expectantly again, but he says nothing more. That is the ending to the story, but there is so much left unsaid.

“Is that… true?” He asks and almost feels dumb for doing so. 

Genji shrugs, not meeting his eyes. “I like to think it is. Father said it was.”

They fall into a silence, not entirely uncomfortable but the air is thick. McCree reaches his hand out to touch one of Genji’s, fallen still on the edge of the tub, and looks at him fondly.

“Thank you for sharing that with me,” he says sincerely.

The other smiles a little, meeting his gaze. “You have shared enough with me, I figured I should stop keeping some of my secrets.”

It’s not so much a secret as it is something personal to him, a story about his mother, whether true or not, that means a lot to him. It’s the answer to his question about where the spirit dragons may have come from. Perhaps that’s another story altogether, but McCree won’t ask. This is enough, to know about the little things Genji holds dear, just as he knows about his life in Blackwatch, his fears. This is, he thinks, the Genji beneath the razor sharp smiles and half-lidded looks, beyond the stressful nature of work and his ferocity in battle.

“Turn back around,” he instructs, straightening himself up on his footstool. “Let me wash the conditioner out and get you out before you shrivel into nothing.”

McCree does as he asks, is pliant and relaxed as Genji towel dries his hair a little before he steps out of the bath completely. He wraps the towel he had had earlier back around his waist, realizing he hadn’t thought to bring his clothes in with him, and sits on the toilet seat to let Genji finish drying his hair. It’s going to be a tangled mess at this rate, but he doesn’t care too much right now. He’s enjoying the attention. His body feels lighter, his head a little clearer, the something in his chest isn’t squeezing him to death. The fear is gone, Genji looks at him the same as he has any previous day. All he feels now is a bone tiredness, the stress and excitement of last night finally reaching him.

“I have to grab my clothes,” he says once they leave the steamy bathroom. Genji nods at him and flops down on his bed belly first. McCree hesitates to continue. “Can I… come back in?”

Genji looks at him from over his shoulder. “Yeah, of course. Whatever you need, McCree.”

He’s starting to regret not actually going through the trouble of getting himself proper clothes to laze around in. He has jeans, his uniform chaps, but nothing comfortable. He settles for just wearing his boxers; it isn’t like Genji hasn’t seen him naked before. The shortness of them shows off the bite mark on his thigh, right above his knee, but he tries not to think about it as he reattaches his prosthetic, pulls on a long-sleeved shirt and walks back over to Genji’s room. He’s in a different position now, curled up against his many pillows and stuffed Pachimari collection, looking at something on his phone. McCree knocks gently on the doorframe to announce his return and Genji looks up, waves him over as he turns off his phone and places it on his bedside table. He climbs onto the bed, the mattress soft and inviting, and scoots over until he’s curled next to Genji, head resting against his chest. Arms circle around him almost immediately, cradling his head against the warm body. Genji folds in a little to almost encompass him, his cheek leaning against his damp hair.

“What do you need?” He asks softly.

“Sleep….” McCree can feel it tugging at him already, his eyelids heavy with it, his body sinking into the bed and the warm feeling of someone next to him.

Genji chuckles a little, tickling his scalp. “Then sleep. I’ll be here, McCree.”

“Jesse,” he corrects in an afterthought. “You can call me Jesse.”

The arms around him hold on a little tighter. “Go to sleep, Jesse.”

And so he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this one is so late again! I've been very busy with work and being sick. I really, really appreciate everyone's patience and kind words on and off AO3 ❤ You're all very sweet!
> 
> Feel free to hit me up on madamerioulette@tumblr


	9. Down The Rabbit Hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a strange affair, a hunter and a werewolf, but one Genji would like to continue. One, he hopes, McCree would also like to continue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before this chapter starts I have an announcement I'd like to make; I'm removing the Major Character Death tag from this fic. While it wasn't suppose to happen in this chapter, as I was writing it I began thinking about how much this story has changed since I first started. The original reason for the death had been to push further character development for a particular character, but that's changed too, so the death as it stands right now would only fuel the "because pain" trope and that doesn't fit in with the story's overall theme. The title, Via Purifico, is Latin for "the path to purification" which is not only the theme of the fic but what the death originally stood for, for the characters involved. Since it no longer stands for that, I don't want to keep it in just for shock value.
> 
> Thank you for understanding!

McCree dreams of the moon, round and full and ever bright in the night sky. The naked branches of dead trees obscure it, reach out to it like spindly, knobby fingers. He’s on the ground again, lying back against the dark blackness, the touch of it chilled as it envelopes him. McCree lets it happen, closes his eyes and sinks into it.

 _Don’t hesitate_.

McCree wakes up to warmth and the soft sound of a heartbeat that isn’t his. It takes him a moment to reorient himself, both from the dream and years of sleeping alone. He’s in Genji’s room, sleeping on his bed, next to him. Arms are loosely wrapped around his shoulder and head, underneath the crook of his neck and he’s almost positive that arm is going to be asleep when Genji wakes. When he finally opens his eyes, he’s staring at two colorful characters from a video game he’s unfamiliar with, warped and wrinkled. He tilts his head up a bit to see him, sleeping with a small string of drool pooling onto his pillow. McCree grins to himself, licking his lips when he feels them crack a bit from the movement, dry as they are. He readjusts himself a little in his hold, tucks himself below Genji’s chin so that his nose is pressed against his collarbone. There’s the lingering scent of patchouli on him, and underneath it is Genji, a warm, safe smell.

It feels weird to be so relaxed. He isn’t completely, there is still the lingering sensation that shakes through him, repercussions of the night before that he knows won’t go away until tomorrow. The issue of Talon is still very much relevant, Gabriel, the bounty on his head that hasn’t been resolved, but the one thing that’s been plaguing him the last few days is at ease. That in of itself makes it easier to breath. It isn’t just knowing that Genji isn’t afraid of him, it’s knowing he doesn’t need to be afraid of himself either. It’s liberating. It leaves him feeling a little giddy, smiles at the memory of Genji’s fingers through his hair, how sweetly he treated him. He doesn’t want to move too much, in lieu of waking him, but he bets his hair feels softer than he can ever remember.

After a while, he becomes restless. As comforting as this is -- the warm body, the bed, the silence -- it’s not what he’s used to. In Blackwatch there were at least a dozen of them, not including those few in Overwatch. There was an unspoken kinship, a pack, so unlike the one he’d grown up in. McCree isn’t even sure he can say he _grew up_ in the Deadlock Pack. And while lying next to Genji may not live up to the dozen or so packed werebeasts in the lounge, it sure as hell is better than his Deadlock days. Nevertheless, he quietly squirms free of the arms holding him in a loose grasp and scoots over to the edge of the bed behind Genji. Now he can card his fingers through his hair without bothering anyone, so he does with his flesh hand. It’s soft and McCree smiles at the feeling, faltering a little when he reaches down along his jawline. He needs to shave. _Again_. Sometimes he wonders whether he’d be this hairy if he wasn’t a werewolf. Probably, if not a little better kept.

McCree takes this moment to himself to look around the room, take in the home away from home that is Genji’s. It’s a little bigger than his guest room, outfitted and customized with shelves full of paraphernalia and posters on the walls. The walls are a faded pastel green, easy on the eyes and matching the cream colored carpet that is covered in haphazardly thrown clothes and the handful of pachimaris that fell off the bed. Next to the bed is a corner table. Genji’s phone lies face up on it next to the idle floating lamp fixture, the numbers reading six-forty-two in the evening. Strewn about are a couple empty cans of some kind of soft drink, about half a dozen hairpins, and two small picture frames. One of them is tilted towards the bed, of Hanzo and Genji somewhere outside in the Estate. Hanzo looks caught off guard, his brother’s arm wrapped around his shoulders and pulling him in for a photo. Genji is grinning ear to ear, one arm outstretched to take the picture itself. It's off kilter, angled funny but fitting. McCree smiles, tilting his head in turn with it.

The second picture is turned away, corner to corner with the other frame. McCree glances over at Genji’s sleeping form before carefully leaning over to grab it. It's an older picture, faded and wrinkled at the edges before they disappear beneath the frame. It's of a woman and two boys; one of them is just a baby sitting in the other boy’s lap, with him in turn sitting in the woman’s. The boys are easily recognizable, the older one is Hanzo, hair down and barely touching his shoulders, with what he can only suspect is Genji awkwardly held in his arms and lap, his pudgy baby face enthralled with whoever is behind the camera. It’s the woman that grabs McCree’s attention. She’s hugging Hanzo around the shoulders, squeezing him to her chest affectionately as she smiles, wide and warm into the camera. Her hair is pulled up into a messy ponytail, the length of it cascading down one shoulder, white with ashy tips. He can’t see her eyes, they’re shut tight as if she’s laughing about something, but he can only guess they are as Genji described them in his story. There’s nothing about anything in this photo that is otherworldly, not that he could tell from a photograph anyway; perhaps if her eyes were open, shining, if he could make out the sharpness of her teeth a little better, but he doesn’t want to scrutinize and analyze. It’s a sweet family photo and McCree finds himself smiling fondly at it.

“So nosey.”

Genji’s teasing, sleep addled tone causes him to jump. He’d been so concentrated on the picture that he hadn’t noticed him wake up. There’s an apology on his tongue when he turns to look at him, but it dies when he realizes the other isn’t put off by his slight snooping. He isn’t even sure he can call it that, it was on the bedside table after all. Still, he holds it to his chest a little, as if hiding the fact that he’d been looking and Genji chuckles sleepily. He pushes himself up, faltering a little as his left arm buckles beneath him and Genji hisses. It _did_ fall asleep. McCree helps him steady himself as Genji sits up and scoots close enough to him that he can lean his forehead on his shoulder.

“Why are you up?” He asks, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “I thought you would be asleep all day.”

“Usually yeah, but… I’m just restless.”

The feeling is akin to when he first joined Blackwatch, officially, and was still getting a handle of how things worked. The first time he hadn’t spent a full moon heavily sedated was weird; everyone was so touchy-feely it was like whiplash coming from the Deadlock Pack. He’d been restless then too, but quickly acclimated to it the next time the full moon came around. After spending six years alone, and now this, he’s getting another, albeit smaller case of whiplash.

“It’s just different from what I’m used to,” is what McCree goes with.

“And what is it that you are used to?” Asks Genji.

He tells him, about the “puppy piles” as some of them deemed it, how off limits the lounges were to everyone else given how difficult it was to walk around them. Genji asks him about how their missions fit into all this, and McCree explains that they were always aware about the moon phases. Accidents happened on the rare occasion a mission took longer than ideal, complications and the like, but nothing catastrophic. They were professionals after all.

“Didn’t stop the U.N. from clenching their already tight assholes whenever it happened though,” McCree sneers and Genji laughs.

“Oh, I _know_ the feeling of causing your superiors anguish.” He says with a mischievous tone. Something tells him it isn’t always by mistake when the Council gets its feathers ruffled. Genji grows a little more serious in his tone as he adds, “So everyone did this? Like a pack of sorts.”

“Yeah.” McCree replies wistfully. “I mean, not everyone. For the most part we all spent the full moon together, but some of us had significant others they wanted to spend the day after with. Or a fling, dependin’ on the mood.”

Genji nudges him, teasing, “Oh yeah?” He looks up from where he’s resting his head, looking up at McCree through messy strands of hair that have fallen forward with sleep. “I bet you had a lot fawning over you, hm?”

He chuckles, but doesn’t reply. McCree suddenly feels homesick, nostalgia twisting into something sour in the back of his throat. Genji nudges him again, hooking his chin on the other’s shoulder, a smile on his lips as he speaks.

“Don't be so humble.”

“Not everyone can flaunt it as easily as you sugar,” McCree feels himself smile back. “But I did oblige, rarely.”

Genji hums, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively, causing the other to laugh again, shaking his head.

“You ain't as subtle as you like to think you are, you know that?” McCree says, voice low.

“I'm not trying to be subtle.”

Oh, McCree thinks, and there's that feeling again from two nights ago, deep in his gut, pressing on his chest. There's no alcohol to blame this time, and he thinks he wouldn't anyway even if there were. It takes two short seconds for him to move forward, careful not to bump his shoulder into Genji’s chin, and kiss him full on the lips. It's clumsy, the angle is awkward, but he can feel Genji smile against the press. They humor the position for a time, McCree’s metal hand moving to the small of the other’s back to make sure he doesn’t slip right off the edge of the bed. Minutely, Genji tilts his head in such a way that the kiss fits better and brings a hand up to snake around McCree’s neck to give himself a sturdier hold. His lips are warm and dry, wetted by the tongue that peeks out to lick against McCree’s own, and McCree can only willingly open his mouth to accommodate happily.

There’s nothing heavy to stop this from being anything but a pleasant experience, save for the miniscule voice in the far back of his mind reminding him that this is _Genji Shimada_ , heir to the Shimada Empire and whose brother would most certainly kill him, skin him, and flatter his office floor with a new fur throw rug if he ever found out that he was making out with his younger brother. Genji Shimada, one of the best hunters this side of the world and carries himself as such, words as sharp as his blade that cut through steel in equal parts figurative and literal. Genji Shimada, a man with many faces and McCree likes this one second best -- the first is that sweet, open vulnerability from this morning in the bathroom, but this seductive Genji, the Genji that constantly gets under his skin with so much ease McCree is beginning to think he’s just letting him at this point, this one is a very close second. Tied for first, McCree reassesses, when Genji’s teeth bite into his bottom lip, sucking on it, before pulling away with an almost obscene pop.

“Scoot back and lay down,” instructs Genji breathlessly.

McCree doesn’t need to be told twice and does so, crab walking back onto the bed before lying down. Genji swings one leg over him to straddle his hips, the movement practiced and fluid, and promptly readjusts himself up further onto McCree’s stomach to make up for their height difference. McCree is practically leaning up with the effort to grab Genji’s lips again and the other chuckles, obliging as he bends forward to meet him more than halfway and pushes McCree down with a hand on his chest. He can’t remember the last time he indulged in this sort of thing -- years, he knows that much -- but it’s been long enough that McCree almost buries his left hand into Genji’s hair, stopping short before he can tangle the joints and green strands together. Force of habit. If Genji notices he doesn’t say anything, mouth far too busy on McCree’s own. He settles the hand lower, mirroring the position of his right hand just above Genji’s hips. The skin there is soft under his hand, warm, and very pliable and McCree squeezes appreciatively when Genji bites at the corner of his lip, non-too gently this time, eliciting a growl. The growl is what gets Genji to meet his eyes as he presses an open mouth kiss where he’s just bitten, and McCree tries to silently express that that was, in fact, a good growl, an enthusiastic growl, a “definitely do that again” growl. But like with most things, Genji is playful in sometimes the worst ways, and leans back with a sharp, ever-knowing grin on his flushed face. McCree tries to chase him, but the hand on his chest presses him down again, and he lets him. For now.

Genji scoots back a little to attach himself to McCree’s neck shortly after, nosing at the hem of his shirt as he kisses down his shoulder, trying to get at as much skin as he can without removing the shirt altogether. One of his hands is holding himself up on the other side of McCree’s neck while the other idles at his chest, caressing him through the fabric. He’s thankful Genji’s shirt is much easier to get around, the loose half shirt that it is hanging off him, practically inviting McCree’s hands to slide up. They do on their own accord, his metal hand ascending more gingerly than his flesh one, careful not to pinch skin between the joints. It’s a learning curve, one that he hopes he’ll get accustomed to if this sort of thing continues between them. He can feel the press of Genji’s skin on the pads of his silicone, but that’s all it is, just a pressure. It isn’t a warm press, it isn’t as easy to feel each individual rib under his fingers when he squeezes again as Genji licks a stripe up the side of his throat and bites his ear.

“I wouldn’t’ve taken you for a biter,” McCree teases, voice low and rougher than he expected.

Genji laughs at that, hot air curling against his ear. He wonders if the other takes as well to biting as he gives it, and thinks he’ll figure that out at another time. Leaving marks like that in visible places might not be something he wants to invest in, not with the promise of Hanzo joining them soon. As it is, he can feel the restraint in Genji’s kisses when he dives back into the crook of his neck, open mouthed but never biting down too hard. Later, maybe, McCree hopes as he leans up to dot the other’s exposed collarbone with wet kisses of his own. His right hand continues its journey up under Genji’s shirt, rough pads of his fingers squeezing into the skin there whenever Genji does something particularly appealing with his mouth. When he reaches his broad chest and thumbs innocently around a nipple he can feel Genji lean into the touch, his breath shudder against his collar and McCree grins into the other’s neck.

They stay like this for a while, content to lazily kiss one another until Genji takes the initiative to move further south, away from McCree’s neck and mouth. He mourns the loss of the wet warmth at his left side, the cool air of the room apparent with him gone, but watches with fascination as Genji makes his way down, nosing at the fabric of his grey long sleeve, nipping at his skin through it. All the while he keeps eye contact with McCree, amber eyes staring at him through the messy, unkempt bangs that are usually pushed back. Genji ends up sliding down between McCree’s legs, bent at the knees and framing Genji’s middle as he busies himself with the patch of skin that is peeking out from underneath his shirt. Particularly the meat of his hip, a somewhat strangely ticklish area for him but he hums appreciatively as Genji pays it extra rough attention, sucking a hickey where no one will see. He has one arm hooked around his left leg, the hand there groping at the underside of his thigh while the other tickles the hem of his briefs, as if he’s deciding whether or not he wants to pull them down further or not. Pushing himself up on his elbows, McCree lifts a hand to pet Genji’s hair out of his eyes, despite the fact he isn’t looking up at him anymore, and cradles the back of his head as he suckles particularly hard on the skin of his hip. The roughness of it gets something else besides the heat pooling in his belly stirring, and McCree looks up at the ceiling, eyes shut, to try and will it away. Now is not the time for his wolf to show interest.

Genji chuckles, breath ghosting on the bruise most likely forming on his hip and McCree looks down to meet his gaze. He’s smiling wickedly over it, a red mark beginning to purple at the center.

“Too much?” He asks.

McCree grins back at him, fingers curling a little tighter in Genji’s hair. “Mm, no. Something tells me you’re holding back a little.”

“Same reason you are.” Genji sighs, sounding almost disappointed. He rests his cheek next to the hickey.

It goes without saying that the reason is Hanzo, someone who doesn’t need to be brought up at this particular moment with Genji between his legs. Instead, Genji pecks a kiss almost apologetically at the bruise before mouthing his way down on of McCree’s thighs. He seemingly purposefully ignores the interested bulge forming an obvious outline in his briefs and McCree wiggles his hips a little in protest. Genji’s smile is felt on the inside of his left thigh, but he makes no move to pay any attention to what McCree wants. He’s a tease and McCree isn’t sure why that’s a sudden revelation. Genji’s other hand is on his right thigh and it slides up to mirror where his kisses lay on the other. When it gets to close to his bite mark however McCree tilts his right leg away slowly and out of Genji’s grasp. He seems to understand and slowly moves his hand back down to his hips, idly playing with the waistband of his briefs. McCree moves his hips again, but Genji is resilient in his teasing. He lets a finger lightly trace the outline of his hardening dick through the fabric, lips ever curled into a smile as his kisses back down McCree’s thigh.

“Genji…” McCree huffs, caught between relishing in the attention and getting impatient.

“Hm?” He looks up at him, eyes shining with mischief. When McCree wriggles his hips for a third time, Genji just shakes his head. “Use your words.”

McCree groans, hanging his head back. “C’mon sugar, quit being a tease.”

Genji laughs into his thigh, giving the meat of it one last wet kiss before relenting. “Okay, okay, I’ll stop _hounding_ you.”

The beginnings of a relieved smile begin to spread across McCree’s face before the pun, the god awful pun, is realized and he snaps his head down to look at Genji. He looks far too smug for his own good, trying to hid his face in the crook of where his thigh meets hips.

“Did you… are you making _dog_ puns?” McCree says around a breathless laugh despite himself. “You’re inches away from my dick and you’re making dog puns?”

“To be fair, it is an expression,” Genji defends, looking away. “But I have had that one _leashed_ up for a while.”

“Okay, _that_ one was bad.”

“Yeah, that one sounded better in my head,” he purses his lips. “I’ll make it up to you.”

Without anymore fanfare, Genji’s lips make their way to his still clothed dick, kissing the outline of it as his hands make slow, but steady work of his underwear. McCree bites the inside of his cheek, an appreciative groan making its way up his throat.

Sometime later he’ll thank his sensitive ears for picking up the mechanical whirring sound of an elevator moving up tens of floors, but right now is not that sometime later. He isn’t sure what it is first, the disruption in the otherwise quiet suite, but when he realizes it’s the elevator, that it might be _the_ elevator that is reserved for the Shimadas, McCree thinks it pertinent to let Genji know his brother might be crashing the party.

“W-Wait,” McCree gently tugs at Genji’s hair to pull him off his crotch. “I think I hear the elevator.”

Genji’s eyes take several seconds to focus out of their haze before his expression hardens and he’s crawling over McCree to grab at his phone on the table beside the bed. He frowns at whatever he sees on the screen and moves a hand underneath his pillow, pulling out a short dagger. McCree can’t say he’s surprised, but he is surprised that he didn’t pick up on that earlier.

“Hanzo usually calls before coming over,” explains Genji as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed. “He hasn’t. It still might be him, but call me paranoid -- it might not be.”

McCree can’t argue with that, not after what happened with the Talon agents the night before, and follows Genji out of the room. The prospect of danger does little to wash away the slight irritation of the interruption though, be it Talon or Hanzo, but he does his best to hide the erection pressing against his briefs and pull down his shirt to hide the bruise on his hip.

They stand on either side of the elevator doors, Genji with his knife ready and McCree positioned to grapple anyone who walks through. From an outsider’s point of view, they probably look a little ridiculous; McCree can feel the bruise on his hip, on the corner of his mouth, pulsating in the good kind of pleasure pain. He’s desperately trying to will his dick to cool it and idly wonders if he has time to pull on a pair of pants. In front of him, Genji looks on the better side of debauched, hair a mess, parted lips wet and red, face flushed and eyes still slightly glazed over. His pants are baggy enough that if he’s sporting an erection, and McCree is pretty sure that he is, it doesn’t show. Lucky him.

The elevator gets louder until it finally stops at the top floor. McCree braces himself when the doors open with a quiet _ding_. He hears someone take two steps before pausing.

“It’s me.” Hanzo announces, sounding almost amused. “Relax.”

“Relax he says,” Genji sighs, rolling his eyes at McCree. To Hanzo, he says, “You usually call.”

“Sorry, I have been on the phone all morning with everyone else,” he apologizes with a small bow of his head at Genji. “There is… a lot going on.”

He sounds tired, looks it too given the bags under his eyes. Hanzo’s hair is messily thrown up into a ponytail that leaves out long, wayward strands, and his clothes looked rucked and wrinkled as if he’d slept in them. For the first time since McCree has seen him, Hanzo hasn't shaved leaving black bristles on his chin and up the side of his jaw. Remembering what Genji told him of the night before, he wonders just how much trouble he’s in killing their so-called employees and how much Hanzo had to clean up. He feels guilty, not for killing the Talon agents but for the workload it caused.

“Are you alright?” Hanzo is dotting on Genji without seeming like he is, ignoring McCree completely.

McCree can’t find it in him to care given he’s in his underwear.

 

They order a late dinner from the kitchens and discuss their findings over food. Genji dresses himself in non-sleepwear and does his hair up in its normal fashionable state. While he’s in the bathroom he double checks to make sure McCree didn’t leave any marks; he hadn’t been rough, but there had been minimal biting. There’s the faintest of red marks on the shell of his ear, easily hidden behind tufts of hair. Genji’s more worried about McCree, smiling at the memory of how he looked as they waited for their unknown guest at the elevator. The one corner of his mouth is red and swollen and he hopes Hanzo will write it off as an incident from the night before. So far he hasn’t said much about it, or about the night in general, or even looked in McCree’s direction for that matter. Even sitting so enclosed at the small table in the kitchen, food and work spread around them in equal measure, whenever Hanzo speaks to McCree -- as rare occasion as that is -- it’s with his nose buried in his tablet. He’s aware his brother doesn’t hold much of anything good towards McCree, but the least he can do is suck it up while they align themselves together.

Hanzo hands over the autopsy reports of their two dead “employees” to which Genji makes an unpleasant face towards. It’s a medical file listing names, ages, genders, bloodtypes, date of births, time and date of deaths -- all false. False in the sense that it belongs to the _real_ employees, not the people he and McCree fought last night. The bodies are faceless, making it easier to spread the lie of who they were. One has their throat ripped clear open, the jaw disjointed and hanging, and the face a gnarled mess. The other barely has a face left, the woman’s head is crushed inward, broken and mutilated. She has a claw wound spanning the length of her chest, bone deep, so much so that the cut down the middle of her body almost blends in. Genji doesn’t spend a lot of time with the photos hovering above his tablet. McCree keeps fidgeting enough that it catches his eyes and he flicks them back onto the main screen where he can look at them privately.

“You’re sure those were not our people?” Hanzo asks, not so much accusingly as he is trying to get the facts straight.

“Hanzo, I spoke to the woman point blank. I may not know every single one of our clan members, but I know we don’t give out bullets like these.” Genji taps his finger on the table at the two clips he’d confiscated from the dead agent. One of them is open, black bullets sitting untouched. McCree won’t go near them, and even the brothers are hesitant to touch them without gloves. “So if they happened to be ours, and I stand by my opinion that they were not, they certainly weren’t _ours_ anymore if they were carrying these.”

Hanzo hums, moving his pen over to scoot the casings closer to him. “We need to get these analyzed.”

“Not by our department.” Hanzo looks as if he’s ready to argue but Genji beats him to it, lifting up his tablet with the autopsy in a silent rebuttal.

“I can, um… send them to a colleague of mine.” McCree pipes up and both Shimadas look his way simultaneously. “She’s just about the brightest goddamn doctor I know, and she’s already studied older versions of these bullets.”

“Name?” Hanzo asks.

“No,” replies McCree adamantly. “No names, you gotta trust me on this. She’s got nothin’ to do with me being here.”

It’s quiet at the table as Hanzo’s eyes slide over to Genji to give him a look. He shrugs, sighing as he leans back in his chair. He doesn’t want to fight Hanzo on this, they really need to trust McCree especially when they’re already iffy on trusting their own clan which just sounds _weird_ . It’s _their_ clan, the _Shimada_ clan, they grew up in and all around it and now Genji feels like he can’t even trust their own forensics team? That said, he doesn’t want to trust a no name doctor either, despite McCree’s relationship with them.

“Was she with Overwatch?” Genji asks.

Even that gets a moment of hesitation. “Yeah. Combat medic. I don’t even gotta tell her it’s Shimada business or whatever. She does research for me every so often, she won’t ask questions.”

Genji gives his brother a quiet look, wondering if that will be enough to sway him. If they decide to do a background check, and he can already tell given the look in Hanzo’s eyes that they will, knowing she was an Overwatch combat medic is just enough information. Slowly, Hanzo nods.

“Do it,” he says, waving his hand.

The second order of business has to do with a surveillance camera based in the Southern region of Hanamura. Last night it had been knocked away and crushed, but not before revealing some intriguing footage. Hanzo brings it up above his tablet for everyone to see and plays it with sound. It’s a lot of static at first, unrecognizable sounds that Genji strains to hear. It’s daytime, late afternoon maybe. There’s the snapping of tree branches and something hits the ground with enough force to shake the camera. A scuffle? Something dark flits across the screen leaving behind a light trail of dark wisps and Genji can already guess who it is. The audio shrieks, crackling brokenly as the cry muffles anything else. At one end of the table McCree shifts forward, alert. The video feed shudders again and this time the camera falls into the snow, the image half buried in it. It catches the dark talons of Gabriel’s feet before he flies upward, but it’s something else entirely that crushes the surveillance camera.

“What was that?” McCree asks immediately.

“We do not know. I sent a team that way as soon as this was reported and I have not heard back from them since.” Hanzo scrubs through the video, stopping around the point where Gabriel leaves the image and something catches the corner of the screen. It’s blurry but looks inky black and thin, wet and shiny from the snow. “Perhaps another hunter.”

“It that common to have other people traipse around your territory like that?”

“No,” answers Genji, leaning back in his chair. “Not another human hunter anyway.”

Hanzo glances non-too subtly at McCree. “Another friend of yours?”

“It’s always ever been just me n’ him. No one knows I’m here,” McCree frowns. “What’s South?”

Genji roots through his memory of anything Talon related and remembers the map they found in the Northern cave. It had four main points; one North, one East, and two South opposite one another.

“Two Talon points of interest.”

“Then we go there.” McCree decides with finality in his voice.

“We know nothing of what’s down there,” Hanzo rebukes. “We do not go blindly.”

“Well if you’re planning on waitin’ on your men you sent, I can tell you right now they’re dead,” he crosses his arms. “ If whatever else was on that vid didn’t kill ‘em, Gabe did.”

“How promising.” Hanzo deadpans.

“I agree with McCree.”

That grabs the attention of both parties, simultaneously looking Genji’s way.

“We know Talon has something down there, or wants something. The fact Gabriel is down there furthers that. Our men are most likely dead, and I don’t think it was the harpy. That sounded like fighting, at the beginning,” Genji leans over the table to scrub back to the beginning of the video. “Listen.”

It’s clearer the second time, now that they know what to listen for. Trees rustle from wind and weight, something is sliding in the snow, hits the tree and the camera shakes. There’s the flap of wings away from the camera, the screech, and the rough sound of two things colliding. The camera falls this time and Genji pauses it around the same time Hanzo had.

“I do not think that is a person.”

“What d’you think it is?” Asks McCree.

Genji shrugs. He isn't sure, the shiny black pole in the ground doesn't exactly give much detail, but given the weighted sounds in the video it sounded too heavy to be human.

“What if it is just another monster?” Hanzo adds.

“Perhaps it'll get the Elders off our ass if we bring in something,” Genji says, focusing on his brother. “Either way, I think we should check it out sooner rather than later. It's too coincidental that it's happening near two points of interest for Talon.”

Hanzo hums, mulling over their options, the facts, the theories. Granted, most is based on theory, but it sits sour in his stomach. A lot of things happening have been sitting heavy with him lately.

“Alright,” Hanzo says with a curt nod. “We'll leave tomorrow morning -- if you're rested enough?”

“I'm fine, I'm fine,” Genji waves a hand at him. “McCree?”

“Yeah, I should be good for tomorrow.”

“Then it's settled.”

The plan is settled. That doesn't mean everyone in the room is though.

McCree leaves the table first. It's uncomfortable being under Hanzo’s scrutinizing gaze, Genji can empathize. He doesn't say anything to him as he leaves, only gingerly hands him the plastic baggy of bullets as he passes by. Whether their fingers brush as McCree takes the bag, neither of them do or say much about the matter. Genji, though….

Genji will think about it, about more than that even with his brother sitting right across from him. Had it not been for his interruption they could be doing something a lot more exciting. This isn't the first time Hanzo has had impeccable timing, like some sort of awful sibling sixth sense. It's never when he working either, when he knows how the night will end and nothing he doesn't want to happen won't. Its when it's for leisure, when he's relaxed and wanting -- and _god_ did he want this evening. With his head between McCree’s thick, hairy thighs, hand on the back of his head, letting Genji’s mouth just wander, and wander he would have. McCree had been humming beneath his fingers, his mouth, his teeth.

This, of course, is more important. Less fun, but far more important.

“Genji?” Hanzo’s voice cuts through his thoughts easily. “Are you sure you're alright?”

He must not be hiding the displeasure as well as he thinks.

“I'm fine,” Genji repeats. “Just a bit tired.”

Hanzo hums, folding his hands over one another. In Japanese, he continues, “You seem distracted.”

“It's been a very long night and an… eventful morning.” Genji sighs, drags his hands over his face. “There's a lot on our plate right now.”

Again, he hums, judgemental, and that gets Genji to look at him between his fingers. Hanzo is looking past him, at the guest bedrooms. Genji tuts loudly.

“He is the least of our worries.”

“I find him to be the root of it all, in all honesty.”

“How open-minded of you, brother.”

“I'm serious Genji.”

“Me too,” he drops his hands. “You have nothing to worry about when it comes to him.”

It sounds a little defensive, even to him, and Hanzo picks up on it, clicks his tongue.

“You're too trusting.”

“Hanzo, I spent an entire full moon with him. He wasn't aggressive towards me when he recognized who I was. The only real danger were these two,” Genji holds up the tablet with the autopsy still visible. “If he had wanted to hurt me, he could've easily done so last night and run off. In fact, this morning he was _scared_ that he had hurt me. Someone who means harm doesn't do that.”

They should know. Hanzo opens his mouth, likely in protest, and Genji cuts him off before he can get a syllable out.

“You weren't there. I saw him, I saw everything. If you don't trust him, then at least trust me.”

Hanzo blinks, taken aback almost, and stares down at the table. He starts picking at the wood, thinking, and Genji feels he might've been a little _too_ defensive. Last night was probably no easier for Hanzo, if not worse. Between worrying about his little brother and the steady stream of weird bullshit happening at the estate, Hanzo is probably not in his best form. He sure as hell doesn't look it.

“Come on, I'm not the only one who needs rest.”

Genji starts getting up from the table when a hand reaches out for his wrist, careful and light.

“I _do_.” Hanzo says quietly. “Trust you. I just want you to be careful.”

“Always!” Genji grins, wide and childish. Not always, but enough to not get him killed on good days. Quieter, with a more serious tone, he adds, “I will. Now, _up_.”

He twists his hand in his hold to catch Hanzo’s own wrist and pull him up.

“And to bed. You look awful.”

“I don’t.” Hanzo huffs.

“Yeah, maybe if you were thirty years older.”

Hanzo cuffs him on the shoulder, lightly, and ducks his head trying to hide a smile. Genji chuckles, tugging him along. He asks if Hanzo wants tea, refuses the first time, accepts the second when he's in his room sitting on the edge of his bed and almost immediately looks like he could pass out right then and there.

Genji makes three cups and waits for them to finish steeping before dishing them out. Hanzo doesn't look like he's moved from his spot on the bed, just leaned over between his knees with the heels of his palms digging into his eyes. He’s thankful when he takes the tea, smiling tiredly up at his brother before gingerly sipping at the still steaming liquid. Genji doesn't stay long and bids him goodnight “ _old man_ ” before slipping out the door and shutting it.

McCree’s door is open just enough for Genji to see a sliver of the guest room. He toes it open further so he can poke his head through. McCree is by the window, looking out at the snow blanketed city below, and doesn't move even when Genji knows he can hear him enter. He's right behind him before he finally does turn, arms unfolding from across his chest to take the offered tea. McCree doesn't look like much of a tea drinker if Genji’s being honest, but he drinks it all the same.

“Done gossipin’?” He asks over the mug, a teasing tone in his voice.

Genji chuckles, holding his own mug with two hands. “Yeah, you would not believe what the woman down the street said about her husband.”

McCree laughs at that. He brings the mug to his lips and hisses at the first burning sting. Too hot; he blows in it generously. “Weren't talking about me then?”

He could say no, they'd been careful not to say his name, but it feels wrong. Genji shrugs a little. “Hanzo’s just being a big brother; stressed out and worrisome.”

“He didn't look too happy to see me.”

“That's just his face.”

McCree snorts.

“Don't take it personally, okay?” Genji tilts his head a little. “We're both new to this teamwork thing with… not humans. He's just playing a little more careful.”

“Mhm.” He tries to sip his tea again. Better this time, as he pauses to drink it. “I sent the samples out to An -- my friend.”

“How long until we get a response?”

“Dunno. I haven't really been keeping her up to date on my well-being lately. I'll probably get an angry message back sooner than a proper one,” he rubs one hand to the back of his neck. “Doesn't even know ‘bout my arm.”

Genji tsks teasingly, wagging a finger at him, and McCree swats at him, chuckling.

“I don't like making her worry alright? If she knew where I was -- shit, _who_ I was with, she might come down here herself and drag me out by the ear.” McCree shudders. “Don't even wanna think about what’d happen if her superior were still around.”

Genji wants to ask about them, about the name he keeps to himself, this superior -- idly he wonders if he saw them on the vids -- about their relationship. He doesn't. It still doesn't feel right to do so, even after last night, this morning. That isn't a time he was meant to ever be a part of. Even so, he can't help but _want_ to ask.

The time he is meant to be a part of is this one, when McCree lowers his head so that his breath is hot against the shell of his ear when he says if it's too much to ask if he can stay here for a while. He's meant to be here in this moment where Genji grins against the other’s rough cheek, murmurs just for a while, if they're quiet. He's meant to be here, straddling McCree’s hips as he sets their cups of tea down gingerly on the bedside table. There’s nothing urgent about it, nothing heavy as he just sits there, wholly aware of the door still ajar, and lets McCree rearrange them until he’s happy. His cheek is resting on Genji’s chest, just breathing softly, arms loosely wrapped around his waist to keep him steady. Genji has noticed since this morning, maybe even the night before, that McCree gets a little… and he doesn’t want to say clingy or needy, but it’s what it feels like, the way he just casually drags Genji over to the bed just to hold him. Not that he’s complaining, it feels like he’s earned this, this piece of McCree’s life. This moment where he belongs.

“Sorry.” McCree mumbles into his shirt without much else.

Genji’s not sure what he’s apologizing for, but doesn’t ask. “It’s alright.”

Instead he curls his arms around McCree’s head and holds him close, similarly to the way they’d laid this morning. He can feel the rub of his beard through the shirt, catching as he moves. Genji rests his cheek atop McCree’s head, kissing the crown of it. They sit like this for a while, the only sound their quiet, even breathing, until Genji can feel himself dozing off and he knows it’s time to pry himself away to his own room.

It's a strange affair, a hunter and a werewolf, but one Genji would like to continue. One, he hopes, McCree would also like to continue.

 

⭐

 

The disturbance is from the Southeast and it takes them the better part of the day to travel there. If it not for McCree, they could’ve taken a train to the nearest town and hoofed it from there. After what happened during the full moon, the bounty is a hotter topic than is helpful, and traveling with McCree is becoming more difficult with each passing day. They take the back way out of the hotel and meet Oni on a side street. From there they drive into the early evening until they reach the southernmost town where they continue on foot.

McCree is asked to walk a ways behind them until they know what happened to their original team that had been sent out and is now missing. They don’t want him seen only to cause another upstart, and for all McCree makes himself out to be, he is incredibly skilled at disappearing when he needs to. He’s dressed in his normal attire, a dark thermal long sleeve, his uniform chaps, and his signature items, gun included. From afar he looks like a regular old hunter, albeit foreign, and that's what they're hoping for should they get spotted. Genji and Hanzo are sporting their usual attire, the clan uniforms in white with the orange accents. They aren't going for stealth this time around, they figure whatever is out there, be it Talon or another monster, will know of their presence far beforehand.

The area to the South is a flat terrain, thick with forests. It doesn't leave much room for movement, human or monster, but it does give shadow to hide in even in early dusk. The brothers can't hear McCree behind them and every so often Hanzo will turn around to make sure he's following. He'll be there, in step with their footprints in the snow, veering closer to the trees than they are, quieter than anyone they know. It's unnerving to Hanzo a little; Genji’s had a while to get used to it. He'll make noise when he wants to be noticed. If the Shimadas don't hear him, not much else will either.

When they arrive eastward, where the video camera had been crushed, they find nothing but a few broken trees and deep divots in the snow. It's telling that the trees, snapped at the trunk, were not of human make, furthering the theory that the harpy hadn't been fighting one of their own. Speaking of, there's no sign of their people anywhere. No blood, no remains, nothing.

McCree sniffs the air and wrinkles his nose.

“Something was here.”

Genji turns away from tree he's examining to look his way. “A monster?”

He shakes his head. “I dunno… doesn't smell natural, whatever it is.”

A few feet off, Hanzo finds a wet, sticky patch of something left behind on one of the snapped trunks. It's colorless, but shines in the sunlight like dew on a web. He touches it with unclothed fingers, rubs it between his forefinger, middle finger and thumb before calling Genji over.

“What do you think it is?” He asks, watching his brother give the curious substance a poke.

Genji makes a face. “Gross.”

“Very helpful.” Hanzo rolls his eyes. “Anything substantial?”

“Not sap, it's too tacky.” He sniffs it, rolling it between his fingers. “Doesn't smell like anything. It's sort of stringy, don't you think?”

Hanzo nods. “McCree, come here. What do you make of this?”

Hanzo has been acting a little more professional towards McCree since yesterday. It helps that his eyes don’t shine as bright today. He's trying to take what Genji said to heart, to trust him on this. So he does, makes minimal business talk with McCree, asks his opinion, and McCree obliges. He's careful in his words, more so than when he speaks with Genji.

Hanzo doesn't take it personally, but he does try not to look into how comfortable they are together.

“That's the smell, it smells artificial. Dunno what it is, but it ain't natural. It um,” he licks his lips, pausing to sniff the air again. “It's heading East. It's muddled with the scent of humans, probably your people, and --”

He hesitates to say Gabe, Genji catches it.

“Harpy.”

“Lead the way,” says Hanzo.

 

There's a hole in the ground. It's surrounded by brush and hidden by the increasingly darkening skies, but it's there like some sort of sinkhole, slanted a ways so that it’s more a chute than just a straight down hole. It doesn’t look natural, but it doesn’t have the markings of something industrially made. Like something dug it out with purpose, but not with mechanisms. The circumference is large enough that McCree thinks even he could walk in through in his wolf form and still have ample room to move. There aren't any footprints in the snow that they can see, but Hanzo makes mention of the broken branches in the trees, a patterned path that has followed them since McCree founded the scent trail. Whatever it is, it travels in the trees, leaving behind little but snapped branches and the occasional sticky substance smeared on the bark. The area around the hole is in the same condition, save for something new.

“Drag marks,” Genji motions with his flashlight. In the snow and dirt, starting a few feet away from the entrance are small impacts that rivet through into the hole. “It doesn't look like whatever it was struggled.”

“Dead already maybe?” Hanzo suggests.

McCree fidgets at the prospect. Gabriel might be in there. _Dead_. The word doesn’t sit right, it never will when it comes to Gabriel. Maybe one day, when he’s ready, and the empty coffin in the graveyard next to Jack Morrison’s doesn’t haunt him, it’ll settle like an old, hurting memory the way it’s suppose to. Not now though, not while they’re staring into the inky blackness of this strange hole in the ground. The flashlight Genji holds to it barely pierces the darkness. It isn’t a problem for McCree, he can see just fine in the dark, but for the others it’ll be hassle, a weakness.

“So are we goin’ in?” He asks, looking up between Genji and Hanzo.

“We did not travel all this way just to look at a hole,” the eldest brother replies.

“Let me take point,” McCree offers, and when he’s met with a subtle, but noticed face that looks ready to argue it, he adds, “I can see better than either one of you in the dark. Don’t want you wasting those sonar arrows just to see two feet in front of you.”

He makes a good point, and neither of them argue otherwise. Hanzo nods at him to take point, he next, and Genji bringing up the rear as they head down.

It stinks, not just to McCree but to everyone. The hot swell of rotten stench billows out from the deeper recesses of the tunnel as they continue forward. Hanzo and Genji pull their face masks up to deter the smell if even just a little, but McCree takes the brunt of it, breathing shallowly. As far as he can see it’s just a tunnel, the drag marks from earlier continuing with them. There are multiple ones, intersecting, some lifting up it seems only to be put down a few feet later. In the walls, the floors, the ceiling, there are holes with seemingly no pattern. They aren’t very deep, about the size of a silver dollar, and hold nothing inside. Genji bravely sticks his fingers in a few to test it out and comes back with nothing, not even the weird stringy mess they found outside. That doesn’t mean they don’t find it elsewhere, mostly the floor, in the drag marks, and McCree is beginning to brew a few theories as to what it might actually be.

“It might be something to restrain whatever is being dragged down here,” he suggests quietly, voice purposefully low. “Like an adhesive.”

“Maybe, but for what purpose?” Asks Hanzo. He has his bow in hand, arrow knocked loosely but ready should anything come barreling down the tunnel. “Why not just kill it?”

“Same reason we sometimes stay our own blades, brother,” it’s Genji who answers. “For questioning.”

“Down here?”

He shrugs. “We will see once we find something worthwhile, won’t we?”

And find something worthwhile they do. Eventually the tunnel opens up into a large, semi-circular room. The walls are decorated with holes, much larger than the ones dotting the tunnel, large enough to fit something, _someone_ inside. The floor is uneven, the dirt pushed and burrowed in and piled in seemingly random pattern. There are other tunnels leading, what McCree can only assume, out, perhaps to other surface areas, or maybe to more rooms like this.

McCree puts an arm out to stop the brothers.

“What is it?” Genji asks, his voice coming from McCree’s left.

He explains what he sees in the best detail he can, voice still quiet and low. “I don’t see any _thing_ though. Nothin’ moving.”

“Should we check the holes?”

Hanzo makes a noise in the back of his throat. Like that sounds both good and bad.

“This feels like a trap.”

They really need to get better at figuring that out before they’re in the thick of it. But they’re here now and have not much else to do than to do as Genji suggested. McCree leads them to the left until their flashlights bounce off the dirt walls and they can fend for themselves. He isn’t too interested in crawling in there, he’s more interested in anything else. If anything moves, makes a noise, tries to catch them with their backs turned. The air in here is stale, but something has definitely been here. He can smell it, whatever _it_ is. It’s not a human, they all know that for certain.

The first few holes Genji crawls into are empty, but the interior is sticky and stringy, the colorless substance beginning to coat his gloves and naked fingertips. He wipes them off on his trousers in vain, doing nothing but spreading it further on both articles of clothing now. Making a face, he crawls into the next, and the next, and only hesitates at the fifth hole.

“Hanzo,” he nearly whispers, but in the empty vastness of the room it carries easily. “More light.”

There, shoved far into the back, is a cocoon of sorts. The adhesive around it is just barely translucent, enough to see the color of clothes, something akin to a face, hands frozen and pressed against the inside as if they had been trying to escape but couldn’t. Genji swallows down the feeling of wanting to back away, his muscles urging him to do so, and continues forward. The smell of rotting flesh grows thicker as he approaches. Whoever this is, they suffered not long ago. The scent only blossoms out further when Genji reaches to roll the body closer to him. The translucent encasing is torn open, shredded much like the body. If Genji had to guess, he’d say teeth marks, dauntingly large fangs having ripped through and consumed the organs of this person. What’s left is stringy flesh and muscle, discolored and rotted after being kept in this moist environment. There’s a patch of clothing pressing against the adhesive, the sharp edges of the swirl that marks the Shimada Clan uniforms.

Genji crawls out of the hole much quicker than he’d gone in.

“What is it?” Asks Hanzo.

“I think I found one of our men.”

“Alive?”

Genji looks a little paler at that, even in the low light. “No.”

He explains what he found, the adhesive wrappings, similar to that of a web. It's a form of spider, that much has become obvious. Hanzo suggests it could possibly be an aranea; awful, giant things with their brains hitched on their backs and malformed human faces. They can be tricky, much like werewolves, with the ability to shift into a human form if need be. But they have never had a case like that in Hanamura, or Japan for that matter, even less likely in the winter.

“It would explain the tunnels though,” McCree says, eyes still focused around the room. “It ain't cold down here.”

Genji lets out a small whine. “Wonderful.”

He's not a fan of spiders, to say the least.

McCree unholsters his gun, clicks the safety off and the metallic sound bounces around them. “Stay close, yeah?”

They continue along the wall. Genji doesn’t go in any more of them, but they do flash their lights down into the ones they can reach to see if they find anything moving. They don’t, and no one goes to see if their innards have been removed. It isn’t until they find a strange, black smudge against one of the holes that they stop again. This time, McCree tears his eyes off the interior, shining and reflecting off the flashlights, wide. He gasps.

“Gabe.” He whispers.

Genji moves his flashlight so that it shines down the hole. It’s empty. He backs up and shines it around the wall in hopes of finding more of the black smudge. They do, it’s dripping from another hole several feet up. McCree fidgets.

“I’ll go.”

“No, I will.” Genji puts his hand up when McCree looks ready to protest. He raises it higher when Hanzo does the same. “We can’t see anything in this room, you still need to be our eyes. And --” to Hanzo “-- I’m a better climber.”

He smiles teasingly, despite the situation, and ignores the scrunch of his brother’s face as he turns to start his way up the wall, clipping his flashlight onto his tunic. It’s packed firmer than he’d thought, but he still takes it careful and slow, sometimes using the smaller mystery holes as leverage. Below him, Hanzo keeps the flashlight steady on him before he disappears into the tunnel where the thick ooze is dripping from. There’s a small river of it, coming from the minutely moving cocoon in the back of the hole; when Genji flashes the light over it it pulses and jerks, and he can see the stain of dark, dark red against the webbing.

He sucks in a breath and whispers, “Gabriel?”

The cocoon stops for a second, then twitches. There’s a small gurgle from behind the adhesive and Genji can just barely see where his head might be, the press of feathers and claws, where his legs are tucked up in an awkward angle. He unsheathes his short sword and moves forward, talking all the while.

“I am not here to hurt you,” he assures him, but god it would be so easy. It would be so unbelievably simple to sink his sword into his chest, quiet and uneventful revenge for his brother. Dishonorable. Genji breathes in a shallow breath, holds it, and wills the thought away. “Jesse is here.”

That gets a violent shake from the body beneath the wrapping, another strangled gurgle. Genji crawls over and puts a tentative hand on what he assumes is Gabriel’s shoulder. It jerks beneath him.

“Stop moving, I’m going to try and cut you loose.”

There is an unsure, muffled noise that comes from beneath him, but Genji ignores it. He tries to find a loose area to start cutting, something that isn't suctioned to his skin. Genji gingerly pinches the webbing near the face and gently cuts slowly with his short sword to create a hole big enough for him to squeeze his fingers in and tear the rest away.

Below, the air changes and both McCree and Hanzo stiffen. Hanzo can't see but two feet in front of him and stays close to the other, flashlight pulling away from the hole Genji crawled in in order to look around as best he can. McCree can feel his nervousness washing off him in waves and chances a glance at Hanzo.

“You feel that?” He asks. Hanzo nods. “Stay close, something’s in here.”

“I'm fine,” comes his stubborn response. He clips the light back to his tunic and grabs an arrow. “Keep a look out.”

Hanzo taps something on the shaft of the arrow and the tip changes to something round, and there's a ringing in McCree’s ears. The sonar arrow; he makes a face. The other knocks it, pulling the string tight, and looks to McCree.

“If something moves, give me a direction.” Hanzo notices the pinched expression on McCree’s face. “What is it?”

“Nothin’, s’just the tech in your arrow. Makes a high pitched noise.”

McCree nods to him, eyes hyperfocused on his surroundings but he keeps an ear out for Genji, his whispers to Gabriel who is growling loud enough now that even he can hear it. There’s discomfort in his body language, Genji can tell, but there isn’t much he can do about it with both hands buried into the sticky webbing in an awkward attempt to pull it apart. A few fingers brush against something soft at first, feathers, and then pliant skin, moist and thick with something unnatural. Gabriel snarls and almost bites at him as Genji pulls his hands away. He remembers what McCree said; it's not always him in there. He remembers what Gabriel looked like when he dropped him into the valley; in pain, confused, regretful. He needs to be careful here.

Something is moving.

It's quick and just a blur of darkness against darkness, but McCree sees it, hears the air move, and Hanzo, to a degree, does too.

“Eight o’clock,” McCree announces.

Hanzo is quick, precise, the sonar arrow flying across the cavern and hitting the wall. McCree can't see what it shows, but the other doesn't seem to see anything of interest. He knocks another arrow. They wait. It moves again, a flurry of thin, spindly black legs slipping into a tunnel.

“One.”

Hanzo fires, but misses where the tunnel sits by a few feet. Still, McCree sees nothing, only hears the high pitched ringing that accompanies the infrared. He must though, because Hanzo looks up towards the ceiling and quickly pulls another arrow from his quiver. He doesn't wait for McCree to give him another direction, just fires up several degrees from his last arrow. Whatever he sees makes him flinch.

“Move.” He says, pushing on McCree. “There are tunnels above us.”

Genji can hear their voices, their shuffling below, and in paranoia he looks above him. The dirt is unsettling as if something is above him, raining onto his face. He looks back to Gabriel, his neck and part of his cheek exposed. A claw is poking out, long and curled over the top. Genji tries to tear at the opening further.

“ _Leave_ \--” Gabriel forces out, voice straining. He tries to move his hand out to reach for Genji but he pulls away. “Get him _out_!”

“What --”

He surges forward and grabs Genji’s wrist. His eyes are gleaming red, feathers ruffled and growing. Like he's losing himself again.

“Get McCree out!”

At the shout of his name McCree spins on his heels towards the little tunnel Genji crawled into. Above it, not a foot away from the opening he sees them, two round yellow eyes glowing in the darkness.

And two more.

And two more.

And two more until they're gone, crawling on the ceiling with eight legs and a bulbous, grotesque body. Where the head should be grows a torso of a human -- or perhaps what used to be a human -- two elongated arms, pointed fingers outstretched to him and Hanzo. It wears a smile, crooked and malformed and all wrong; the teeth, fangs, are where they shouldn't and the lips stretch far too wide.

“What a wicked surprise,” the voice speaks, feminine though distorted. “To have the Shimadas come to me.”

She launches herself at them, using two legs to pin McCree to the wall, using her arms to grab Hanzo, pushing him to the ground. Twisting her body unnaturally, it looks to McCree, all eight eyes bright and piercing. The torso is covered in an inky black armor up to her collarbone, shiny like latex in the light of Hanzo’s flashlight.

“When I only wanted this filth.” She stretches towards him, something in the body cracking. Long, dark hair cascades over one shoulder, covering a few of the eyes. Mockingly, she continues, “Come to save our little failure?”

Genji pokes his head out from the hole, straining to see what's happening. In the silhouette of Hanzo’s flashlight he can see the monster, long legs pinning McCree several feet off the ground and Hanzo squirming below. It's not an aranea, not really, but something akin. Something perverted. Behind him, Gabriel thrashes against his bindings, one arm free and tearing at the webbing.

“I will deal with you later.” She says, lifting a third leg to spear into McCree’s shoulder. He howls in pain, but the creature talks over him, returning the previous two legs to the ground to stabilize its balance. “I want this one first.”

She lifts Hanzo up by his arms, one long hand curling around both his wrists, the other pulling at the scruff of his tunic. The grin on her face pulls further than originally thought, nearly splitting the face in two as all eyes focus on the eldest Shimada brother. She leans closer, strings of drool dripping from the fangs, her open mouth, salivating.

“What a pity my employers have different plans for you, you would make such a deliciously plump meal.” A long, dark purple tongue licks across its lips. The hand fisted in his clothes uncurls itself to caress against Hanzo’s face, a nail dragging dangerously under his eye and down his cheek. “But what a pretty specimen you will make.”

“Who are your employers?” Hanzo dares to ask. His voice is even, carrying an unimpressed tone as if he has the higher ground in this situation.

The nail taps against the high crested bone of his cheek, a small, distorted chuckle leaving her throat. “I think you already know the answer to that question, _petite mouche_.”

Talon. “Why do they want me alive?”

She coos, tilting her head to the side. “The _real_ question, is it not? Why one organization wants you alive, and the other dead? I cannot say, I would not want to ruin the surprise. But it is not just you they want.”

The grin crinkles two pairs of eyes with how wide its grown as the creature’s torso twists around to look at Genji, carefully crawling down from the hole. He senses eyes on him and turns to look over his shoulder, dropping the rest of the way down to get his hands free to grab his sword. The entirety of the body moves to face Genji, one leg still spearing McCree through at the right shoulder, left hand grappling for purchase to alleviate the weight on the wound.

“Why have one dragon when you can have two?”

“You will have none!” Hanzo snarls, lifting his legs up and kicking the monster in the face.

The silver plating at the bottom of his prosthetics burns and she screeches, letting him go to cover her face. It stumbles, losing the grip on McCree as she retreats into the darkness. McCree slides off, falling onto his back with a pained wheeze as he reorients himself. Hanzo lands a little more gracefully, rolling as he tumbles towards his bow. He knocks an arrow quickly, tapping the shaft to orient a sonic tip and fires blindly in the direction of the monster. It sinks into the membrane on the back of its body, alerting him of her presence as she crawls onto the ceiling, squeezing through a tunnel.

“Are you alright?” Genji calls out to both of them, eyes on the ceiling.

“Fine,” comes Hanzo’s curt reply, eyes following the red spider shape through the walls.

“Fine…” groans McCree, picking himself up.

The monster settles in the middle of a tunnel, curling in on itself as she attempts to grab at the arrow lodged into her body. Hanzo keeps the other two updated on its status, the three of them circling around. He has another arrow ready to go, the tip a sonar again, as he waits for the creature to move. Eventually the sonar fades and Hanzo aims up and fires another into the dirt. He gets nothing.

“It’s on the move.”

“McCree?” Genji glances at him, eyeing the hole in his serape, the darker red staining it.

He’s quiet a moment. “I can’t get a beat on it, everything in here echoes.”

Silence. Almost deafeningly so. The air shifts around them mockingly. They try to keep their bearings and not swivel around at every rush of air. They’ve stopped moving in circles, trying to pick up anything that isn’t them. Hanzo feels his hairs stand on his neck and reacts only when it’s too late.

“ _Bonjour_.” The word breathes into his ear.

Hands snatch at him, claws tearing at his tunic as he’s lifting up and up and up.

“Hanzo!” Genji yells, watching as his flashlight is pulled upwards until it disappears into a tunnel.

McCree can’t find an open shot, not without accidentally hitting Hanzo in the dark, and doesn’t take it, swearing.

“McCree!” Hanzo’s shouts echo above them. “Listen!”

He isn’t sure what he means until he hears the high pitched ringing of the sonar, stuck on something that is soft and fleshy as the piercing screams from the monster echo. McCree aims up, following the sound with his eyes. It’s muffled, but it doesn’t echo as badly as the shifting dirt, skittering footsteps in the myriads of tunnels around them.

“Three o’clock from where you’re standing, but I don’t see nothin’ yet.” McCree narrates. “Heading away from us.”

He follows the sound, Genji close behind. After a short while the ringing begins to dissipate, and McCree stops, putting a hand out for the other. He can hear struggling and then the sudden sound of another frustrated scream. More ringing, a sharp left.

“Watch your eyes,” is the only warning McCree gives before firing up at the sound.

Clumps of dirt fall around them and Genji puts his arm up to shield his face. Six shots fire out, ringing loudly in the enclosed space. As he’s reloading, Genji pushes at his shoulder.

“Are you crazy, the entire room could come down!” He shouts.

“Relax, I just wanna loosen the dirt enough so it can’t climb up and hide,” McCree gives him a look as he’s reloading, dumping out the empty shells. “Trust me.”

Genji looks torn between taking his word and arguing further. His brother is up there, the monster doing god knows what with him. This is much different than the harpy, this monster has intent, purpose. It has a master with orders and a plan for them. That _Talon_ has a plan for them. He didn’t miss the way it spoke of two different entities and their differentiating wants. That someone wants them dead is not altogether surprising, there are some in Japan that find the Shimadas an overbearing threat and not the helpful clan they deem themselves to be, albeit it a few quiet independent groups. A group of monsters wanting them dead, even less surprising; they’ve killed many since their father’s death, some solo hunts that may have been affiliated with something much larger. That Talon wants them _alive_ , that is surprising.

While Genji is toying with the idea of stopping McCree from fire another round into the ceiling, there comes a cacophony of screeches from behind them. He’d almost forgotten about Gabriel. They can barely see him, his red, piercing gaze the only thing giving him away in the low light as he streaks across the ceiling. His talons dig into the dirt there, much less graceful and careful than McCree was attempting, sowing deep lines that cause larger chunks of dirt to fall and crumple. Some tunnels are beginning to collapse and eventually Gabriel finds the sweet spot; the monster. Its legs pierce through the dirt that’s rapidly beginning to fall away, shrieks of surprise barely muffled. McCree ducks and pulls Genji away, covering him from the brunt of dirt that comes pouring down, kicking up a cloud of dust.

The monster writhes under the mound, scrambling to get back on all eight legs and heave itself out of the dirt. Hanzo is a few yards off, the beginnings of a cocoon restraining him. It isn’t as thick as the others Genji saw, but the light of his flashlight shines through the semi-translucent webbing just enough for his brother to see him behind McCree’s serape. Genji dashes over, skidding to a stop as he reaches Hanzo. He begins to pull him back and away from the monster as she writhes toward them, the spindly legs just out of reach as they claw at Hanzo’s legs. The movement catches her attention and the head whips around, yellow eyes glaring at the brothers. This was suppose to be easy for her, they imagine, and now this mess what with McCree and Gabriel added to the mix. She lurches forward, forcing herself up from the dirt to reach for them once more.

There are three distinct shots fired, though it doesn’t seem to deter the monster. The bullets ricochet off the hard black husk encasing her torso like pebbles to a steel wall. McCree swears and fires again, his last three shots at her head. She ducks and weaves, the movement jerky and unnatural as her torso twists and bends to look at him, gnarled teeth bared and slick.

“Her back!” Hanzo yells through the webbing. Genji hastily cuts through it to release him, careful not to knick his brother. “That is the weak point!”

McCree reloads, fires, and the shots connect and sink deep into the fleshy membrane that spreads from her lower back down across the bulbous abdomen. Something thick and dark oozes from the wounds as she rears back and screeches.

“Enough!” She screams.

The abdomen undulates before spraying a stream of thick webbing at McCree. It hits him in the face, obscuring his vision, stinging something fierce as he shouts, dropping his weapon to claw at his eyes. That sends Gabriel into another fury, fighting for the loose control he has hanging by a string. Red begins to blur his vision but he blinks it away, soaring towards the aranea with determined purpose. He sinks his talons into the vulnerable part of her thorax, arms outstretched to grab her equally vulnerable face. Determined purpose. At least, until he sees the face, clearer than he’s seen it since their meeting two days ago in the forest as he scouted, the red dying from the fringes of his vision. Gabriel falters for a moment, a brief flash of weakness and recognition across his face.

“Amélie?” He nearly chokes on the word, on the face he sees behind the mutilations, a face he looked at every minute of every day for months while they searched for her.

She takes advantage of it. A hand grabs for his forearm, long fingers wrapping around the sick skin there, and twists until the sound of cracking bones and ripping flesh carry through the caverns. His yell of pain tapers into a furious scream as he’s reminded of what she isn’t anymore. But his slip up has lost him his advantage and she has him in a vice grip now, one winged arm hanging awkward and broken as she throws him against the nearest wall. She throws the webbing at him, thicker still to keep him in place as she can focus her full attention on her true prey; the Shimadas. Her focus has been off them for far too long though.

Hanzo has been released, Storm Bow in hand, and an arrow knocked, ready. He lets loose the arrow, the sonar ringing in the ears of those that can pick it up, and it just barely misses its mark. It ricochets off the hard shell beneath the membrane, the shaft nearly splintering from the hard and sudden impact. Hanzo swears as he pulls out another, but by then it’s far too late; the monster skitters out of their light source and without McCree to see for them they are blind in the darkness.

“Why do you fight?” Her voice slithers through the air, raises the hair on the back of their necks. “When you are to benefit from this offer.”

“I think we have a different definition of benefit,” Genji quips, eyes trying to follow the voice but to no avail.

A hand, a leg, a something touches lightly up Genji’s back, tracing the tattoo beneath his tunic and the kevlar. It is much different than when McCree touched him; this is unwelcomed and wrong, causes a shiver to violently shake him from the base of his spine to the nape of his neck. Despite his better judgement, Genji swivels, swinging the sword in an effort to cut at whatever it was that touched him, but it’s nothing but air.

“Genji.” Hanzo calls to him, voice calm and soothing. Don’t lose yourself, is what he wants to say.

“Genji,” the monster hisses. It calls him towards the dark. “Hanzo. What a gift you two possess. We only wish to bring it to full potential.”

He can feel the hairs on his arms raise. Genji isn’t sure if it’s because they might know about their dragons, about something they don’t, or if bringing it up means talking about something they’ve only ever talked about between the two of them, and briefly McCree. It doesn’t sit well, no matter the reason. His back feels hot.

“A mother’s gift,” she continues and it sounds like her voice is everywhere at once, impossible to pinpoint. The air around them moves. “Lost to ignorance. But we can help, Talon can help honor your gift the way it should be.”

The tattoos burn, uncomfortable and angry. Hanzo has to drop his stance to put a hand over his left arm, rubbing at the skin underneath with a pinched expression. Genji’s shoulders shift, hunch and roll, his spinal column burning beneath his uniform, as if a pressure needs releasing.

“Let us help honor your mother the way she was meant to be.”

The voice is directly behind Genji, he can hear it clearly, feel the air at the back of his neck, doing nothing to cool the heat that crawls up his throat. It feels too thick to speak up and he hates it, the feeling of bile rising up in anger to choke him. That this thing would speak so openly about something it feigns knowledge about, about their _mother_ , about her gift. Whatever its full potential truly is, they both know it won’t blossom under Talon, only wilt and wither and rot. The thought alone has his skin crawling, up his back, down Hanzo’s arm, as if they, too, know of the threat that looms over them. The real threat, not some wayward monster bumbling into their city, not a hunt, a true monster.

Talon.

Genji wheels around, sword swinging wide, shining off a light source that’s too bright and not at all the right angle. It shimmers and sparks as it connects with the monster’s hands, catching the blade. She pushes him back, lips curled up in a snarl, but to Genji’s credit he meets her strength.

His back is burning.

With a clear shot, Hanzo knocks his arrow and lets loose a sonar, catching its target this time. It sinks through into the soft tissue, though she doesn’t seem to care this time as thick liquid oozes out and around it. Her attention is solely on Genji, the heat from his blade and the way it shimmers and shows a reflection of something not there. Good, Hanzo thinks, the less attention on him the better advantage he can put himself in.

Away from the fight is McCree, stumbling as he gets the final bits of webbing out of his eyes. It still stings, his vision blurry for it, but he can still shoot at his target without too much error. His shoulder burns, the wound whining in an attempt to heal, but McCree is moving far too much, blood oozing from it. He finds his gun on the floor, brushes it off and reloads, trying not to draw attention to himself. The air smells different now that he has time to breath, fresh, like ozone, familiar to go along with the energy of the room. He looks to Genji and remembers how the wind whipped around him at their estate, on the cliffside, how the air filled his lungs. It’s different beneath the damp earth, dark and enclosed as it is, but McCree can feel it changing, subtle and otherworldly.

“Stop fighting!” She snarls at Genji, leaning her weight onto the sword. Genji’s feet drag back, leaving marks in the dirt. “You can’t possibly want such potential to be wasted. It’s easy.”

With that she leans forward, almost draping herself over the sword in her grasp, pushing her weight onto it. Genji’s ankles whine with the pressure. Her eyes take on a glossy state, reminiscing about something Genji can’t even begin to imagine.

“I know it’s scary at first, you’re unsure, afraid. But I promise,” and the S is drawn out in a quiet hiss. “After all the pain stops and you _forget_ , you awaken anew, it will be easy. And you can honor your mother.”

Genji doesn’t understand what she’s talking about or where her mind is at. She seems to be pressing her weight atop him, ready to crush him if he doesn’t let up, but he can’t, he won’t. Her words burn angrily, as if a group like Talon knows even the meaning of honor. Not after what they did to McCree’s family, to his friends, to Gabriel, to an organization that made him feel like he belonged somewhere in the world.

“ _No_.”

The word is spit like liquid fire from his mouth as he carves through the palms of the monster, blade alight with something he doesn’t understand and doesn’t care to in that moment. It cuts through the hard carapace that engulfs what human anatomy is left, and even the monster herself is surprised by it. She falters forward, a scream leaving her lips as Hanzo takes his opportunity to fire as Genji disengages with a half spin. He aims up at the ceiling, tapping the shaft and causing the head to split into several floating pieces. It’s sloppy, too dark and the dirt gives more than he accounted for, but the arrow hits its mark and scatters into several pieces angled down into the abdomen of the monster, slicing through easily. Like clockwork, he moves to take another, but stops as he begins to knock the arrow.

The room, humid once before, is now hotter still, a wave of it like a summer wind. The energy in the room feels palpable, heavy, even to Hanzo, and McCree finds himself drawn to it but doesn’t dare take a step forward. Hanzo remembers the feeling upon the cliff, watching Genji fall helpless, and the electricity that danced through his body like a powerline, an urgency, a threat, something in him screaming to help him. He feels it now, but so terribly different.

It burns. And at the source is Genji.

A green flame engulfs him, a serpent coiled around his body, scales alight, fangs bared and snarling. Not a serpent, Hanzo knows, but a dragon, swirling around his brother, up his body, around his arm as he swings his sword with a steady hand. It slides, clean and true through her chest, past the defensive shell around her and through the back. The blood that stains his sword, if only for a moment before the heat of the blade sears it away, is black and thick. Her weight has her sliding forward to the hilt, face to face with Genji who stares at her and the light that fades from her eyes.

“Yours would never honor our mother.”

The words fall on deaf ears as the last bit of breath leaves her in a soft sigh.

Genji’s ears are ringing, not unlike the way they had when Hanzo called his dragons. It’s overwhelming when he pulls the sword from the corpse, the blade dying in light and heat though his body feels too hot, too much. The spirit, the ghost, the dragon flakes away into the darkness, or perhaps that’s just his vision. It isn’t, he can see his brother’s flashlight move closer to him. He’s saying something, he thinks McCree is too, a low rumble behind him, but he can’t hear it. His own heartbeat is loud in his ears.

“Genji!” Hanzo’s running to him, out of fear or joy he isn’t sure. Neither is Hanzo.

It becomes much clearer when a steady line of blood trickles from Genji’s nose, flowing over his lips slightly parted to say something. Instead he breathes a shaky breath and his knees bend, legs giving out. McCree is closer, quicker, and catches Genji with a hand on his chest, another at his waist to help him upright but his body is deadweight and limp. McCree can feel his heartbeat flutter, can hear the rapid fire beating of his pulse at his throat.

“He’s alive,” he says as Hanzo nears, looking to grab him from McCree. He lets him. “Burnin’ up something fierce though.”

“Let us move him outside.” Hanzo says with finality in his voice. “We will come back for that _thing_ later.”

He readjusts Genji in his hold, an arm under his knees and another at his shoulders to cradle him in a sturdy hold. McCree nods at him, though he doesn’t see it, and looks to where he last saw Gabriel. The webbing is torn, the harpy gone, and McCree thinks that perhaps he left somewhere between the noise, but he’s there, near the corpse. McCree didn’t miss the way he said her name earlier.

Amélie.

Gabriel sits on his folded legs, hands, one still bent and healing, holding her head in his lap, fingers gently tracing the lines of someone he used to know. The cheekbones are all wrong, uneven, broken. The mouth too wide and scarred, teeth and gums and lips fused together. Her eyes, her human eyes, sit deep in her skull, a valley made to house the others, almond-shaped and faded. There is nothing left of Amélie Lacroix in this broken corpse, and it hurts.

The first time McCree had ever seen her had been at the Palais Garnier opera house in Paris. He was on leave with Gabriel, a bit of time off after a particularly rough mission. Ballet wasn’t really his thing, it still isn’t, but he remembers feeling small in the luminous, golden room, all eyes on one woman at the center stage. She danced with all the grace in the world, with all the passion in her heart, and even subdued a young, scrappy McCree for three hours to watch a show he can’t even remember the name of anymore. Gabriel had taken him backstage to meet her, introduce them. She smiled like the sun, eyes a soft, warm brown, cheeks rosy and flushed from the performance. She was married to Gérard Lacroix, someone he’d only met once in a meeting, an Overwatch agent as hellbent as Gabriel about destroying Talon.

And then one day she was gone.

Gérard is dead, long dead, found in his home, alone, with his innards missing and his chest cavity ripped open. McCree doesn’t want to think about who did it because he knows, somewhere deep down he knows and it makes this hurt worse.

“What did they do to you Amélie?”

Gabriel’s voice is quiet, a rough softness to it that McCree hasn’t heard in a long time. The feathers around him, once clipped and almost normal, grow in length, grow to cover the face of another victim whose life Talon has butchered. He’s losing himself, the red at the edges of his eyes bleed into his vision. His claws flex as if wanting to tear at her skin, to make more of a mess than she already is. He’s angry, and McCree doesn’t try to talk him out of it. It’s a well deserved anger that he feels swelling in his chest all too similarly. When Gabriel moves, McCree does too, putting himself between Hanzo and Genji but they aren’t even a thought in his mind. With a torn, sorrowful cry Gabriel pushes himself up with the self made wind beneath his wings and leaves in a rush.

Hanzo shifts behind him, but not impatiently. “Do… did you know her?”

McCree ignores the forcefulness behind Hanzo’s voice as he gives what he knows to be a monster a proper pronoun, swallows the thick knot in his throat.

This sight will never leave him, her inhuman screams, her mutilated body will add to his long list of nightmares, newly fueled by this new, horrifying discovery. The real tragedy behind this; Amélie Lacroix had been human once.

“Yeah.” McCree says, words wet and stuck. “I did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a rough two months! I'm really sorry for how long this chapter took, I've had a lot of IRL things ping my attention away, but I hope the chapter was worth the wait! I very much appreciate everyone's patience and kind words ❤
> 
> As always, feel free to hit me up on madamerioulette@tumblr ❤
> 
> ALSO HOLY SHIT WE HAVE FAN ART ??
> 
> unholyopossum did this really amazing harpy!Gabe http://unholyopossum.tumblr.com/post/160964274938/so-im-reading-via-purifico-by-madamerioulette
> 
> and lindigo also drew some equally amazing harpy!Gabe https://lindigo.tumblr.com/post/161917197373/withered-and-worn-but-im-still-here-harpygabe


	10. Sordid Affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you want me to stay?”  
> “You don't want me to answer that, cowboy.”

Take him, Hanzo had said, to the cottage with the yellow roof. It isn't said with ease and McCree can see the crease between his brows furrow further than ever before. He looks like he has questions, some of which McCree probably can't answer. Now, in the fresh, frigid night air with Genji unconscious in his arms and a dead monstrosity in some strange, underground network, is not the time for questions. Hanzo knows that, and so he hands his brother over to McCree, who wraps his serape around him before taking him with care. It’s dirty, dried with his blood that is finally beginning to stop seeping out of his healing wound, but he's afraid that the sudden change of temperature will shock Genji’s systems. He's still hot under his hand, too hot. The blood from his nose is dry and starting to flake away. McCree tries to wipe it away with his thumb.

McCree has questions of his own.

Take him to the cottage with the yellow roof; it’s in the southernmost part of the town not far from here, Hanzo explains. Oni will be there, their omnic… butler? Chauffeur? Employee of some sort, that much McCree is certain. It's a safe house of sorts, a small something for them when they travel out this far for a hunt and don't wish to return too soon. The town is hospitable, the Shimadas are well known there, and Hanzo stresses discretion when he enters. Seeing a stranger with Genji unconscious in his arms would send things spiraling into chaos. More so than it has been tonight.

McCree takes him to the cottage with the yellow roof. It's easy to navigate the shadows, he's spent most of his life in them; it's difficult with the searing pain in his shoulder and Genji in his arms. He manages, sneaking back along the quaint, paneled fencing. McCree knocks on the door, awkward as it is with his arms full but he manages.

An omnic with a strangely painted faceplate wearing a sharp, neatly pressed suit opens the door enough for them to see McCree, and then Genji. Immediately the door opens wider, one hand on the door itself, another at their holster.

“What happened to the young Master?” They ask, voice wary. “Where is Lord Shimada?”

Hanzo isn't taking any chances with their findings. He stays to call the authorities and the Clan, the Council, to tell them of what happened.  He wants forensics teams from different groups, scientists, teams of people to scout the caves, people to document what happened and further findings. Hanzo wants to be there for all of it, to oversee what his brother thinks is dishonesty.

Genji passed out on the job, and he was instructed to take him to the cottage with the yellow roof.

“He just needs some rest,” McCree says, shifting him in his arms. He winces, the wound pulsates in a new wave of pain. “I need stitches. You got some?”

Oni tilts their head at him for a moment longer before moving out of the way, ushering them in. The door is shut shortly thereafter, locks done up with practiced ease. From there, the omnic leads him in, making a straight line for a bedroom.

The interior is cozy, simple. Made for resting, light eating, a short visit and nothing more. The living room is just big enough to hold a small L-shaped couch to one side, a medium sized flat screen mounted on the wall across from it, and a ceiling light not anywhere near as ostentatious as the one hanging in the suite. There is a kitchen big enough for maybe two people, outfitted with a mini fridge, microwave, and countertop including a sink and a rice cooker sitting on top. There's one bathroom, with a shower, and two bedrooms. Oni leads McCree to one and motions to the bed.

With their help, the sheets are pulled down and Genji is laid across the bed. Before Oni pulls the covers up, McCree leans the back of his hand on his forehead. Not burning, but still hot.

“Just the first sheet, not the comforter,” McCree advises and Oni does as their told.

“Do you need assistance?” They ask as they straighten up. Oni motions to their own chest, circling a finger around where the other’s wound is.

McCree is about to say no, but thinks better of it. The angle is bad, his one arm is shaking too much and the finer handling of things is still lost to his left hand. He's shaking, for reasons other than blood loss; he's angry, exhausted, a weird sort of adrenaline pumping through him. Besides, he thinks, an omnic’s hands are as steady as he'll ever get.

“Yeah,” he answers. “Thanks.”

The wound is a bloody mess. Oni takes care to wash it with a wet cloth, staining the bathroom sink as they wring it out. The center most part has healed together, no longer an unsightly donut hole of an injury, but the outer parts need stitching if he doesn't want to slowly bleed over everything every time he moves his right arm. Oni is quick, efficient, and best of all quiet. McCree isn't sure if it's a dutiful obligation or if they had nothing to say to him given his position, either way the new silence is enjoyable. When the stitching on both his back and front are finished, patched with gauze to keep any mess from staining further, Oni offers a small, polite bow to him before leaving the bathroom.

McCree sits on the toilet seat a long while, staring unseeing at the door left slightly ajar. He needs a shower, can feel the dirt cling thick and layered onto his skin, in his hair, dust in his lungs. The musty smell of the underground seems to stick with him, and only when he focuses on that for far too long does he decide to bathe. It's short, lukewarm, and unsatisfying. He redresses only in his underwear and tries to find something in the closets in each bedroom. Both hold clothes that are too small, though the room Genji is staying it has a couple shirts that would hang baggy on the brothers, clothes for relaxing, and fit a little snug on him. Briefs and a sweater it is.

Oni has been sitting in with Genji on an armchair in the corner of the room. When McCree enters they get up, but he puts a hand up to stop them. He isn't getting a comfortable sleep in that armchair, he'll be lucky if he gets a comfortable sleep at all, but McCree figures it'll be a little less stressful on his neck if he sleeps above the covers next to Genji.

His head hits the pillow, facing away from Genji, and McCree dozes off soon after.

 

⭐️

 

There's heat. A burning hot sensation that isn't painful, but unfamiliar and strange. It's all around him but concentrated at the center of his back, sucking the moisture from the air and leaving it arid, heated, almost electrified. It's dark, so much so that Genji can't see his own hands in front of his face. Despite that, the heat is comforting, holding him.

There's a coldness, crawling up his spine like spindly fingers, legs, eight of them. The touch is like a whisper on his skin, raising goosebumps. Slowly, the heat starts to fade and the chill sinks in, deep and deep and deeper still until Genji is shaking with it. He can't breath, a different kind of pressure sitting on his chest, squeezing.

Genji wakes with a start and almost falls out of bed, rolling on his front with half his body hanging over. The sheets are tangled around his waist, dressed in a sweater he doesn't remember putting on. There's a weight on the bed keeping the sheets tugged tight and him from toppling out of them. Genji doesn't even need to look over to know it's McCree, wearing one of his sweaters that pulls a little tight across his back. He can see the outline of a square patch of gauze, reaches up to trace the edges gently.

“Good morning, young Master.” Oni greets him from the plush, yellow armchair in the corner. They spook Genji, causing him the flinch back and sit up in the bed. Oni bows their head, “My apologies.”

It takes Genji a moment to figure out where he is. They don't come here often, but this small cottage near the edge of town has its uses. This being one of them. What he finds odd is Hanzo, or rather the lack thereof. McCree sleeping on his bed gives him an indication that he might not be here.

“It's alright,” he says, barely. His voice is dry and cracked. Genji swallows thickly. “Where is my brother?”

Oni motions to a glass of water on the bedside table. “Drink. I have been informed by your…” they pause, trying to find the right word. “Associate. Lord Shimada is out near your hunting grounds with the authorities and Clan.”

Genji blinks. “ _Alone_?”

Oni tilts their head to one side. “The authorities and Clan are there with him.”

He untangles himself from the bed sheets and pushes out of bed only to stumble back into it, head swimming.

“Drink.” Oni repeats.

Hastily, he does. Too fast, air bubbles form painfully in his chest. He tries to get up again, slower this time. His head is throbbing.

“Where are my things?”

“The living room.”

Genji wastes no time, carefully moving along the walls to steady himself as he exits the bedroom, goes across the hall to the living room, and finds his clothes, as well as McCree’s, newly washed and folded neatly on the couch. His phone sits atop it all. He grabs it and immediately calls Hanzo because what is he _thinking_ being out there without Genji to back him up if things go wrong. The monster’s words echo to him like a terrible, haunting ghost.

There are two organizations, and Talon is the one that wants them _alive_ . Someone else wants them dead, whoever that might be and that's the scary part -- _whoever_ . They don't know and something sours and churns over the idea that while all this is happening Hanzo is out near that awful cavern _alone_.

Hanzo picks up almost at the last ring, and it doesn't sound like he looked at the phone before picking it up. He sounds ragged, about as exhausted and heavy as Genji feels, but firm and serious. He’s wanting results and, by the sound of it, he isn't getting any.

“This had better be good news.”

“Hanzo?”

He ignores the fact that he sounds tens of years younger, calling Hanzo while he's away with Father on some business trip Genji hadn't wanted to go on, too boring he'd said. But without his older brother the estate feels empty and quiet and he's on the verge of petulant tears when he dials Hanzo’s number and demands he and Father come home. There aren't any tears now, his body feels too dry to produce them, but there's a sizable knot in his throat when he calls his name into the receiver.

“Genji?” The business-like tone is gone in an instant, and he can hear him shuffle away somewhere quieter. “Are you alright?”

That’s a good question isn't it? One deserving of a good answer. Does he feel alright? He feels dehydrated despite the full glass of water he nearly inhaled, but he can feel a light sheen of sweat form onto his clammy skin. His stomach feels ready to upturn everything in it, cramped. The wall he's looking at, the windows with the wooden blinds, closed, and the run of the mill pictures on either side, it looks blurred. He sits down. There's also the matter of what happened in the underground, what he did and Genji can't believe his dragon _manifested_ full and formed and too much. If the mood were better he'd tease Hanzo about how his was better and not two wispy noodles in the wind, but the timing is wrong; plus he can't imagine he has bragging rights given he passed out. There's the issue of the monster, the number of things she'd said that even now makes his skin crawl. Questions and no answers, not one.

Genji is not alright, no.

“I'm fine,” he lies, and he knows Hanzo knows. His voice is tired and dry and his focus isn't there. “What are you doing out there?”

“Making sure everything goes smoothly. I can't ignore the weird analysis that went on with the last… incident,” Hanzo’s voice is a low whisper. “I want to oversee everything.”

“Why couldn't you have waited until I was able to be there too?”

“Call me paranoid, but I didn't like the idea of leaving this alone until you woke up; I didn't know when that would be, if you'd be able to come with me even after you did. You sound terrible, Genji --”

“Someone wants us _dead_ Hanzo.”

“That's hardly new.”

“And someone else wants us as pet experiments. Someone who has people mixed with ours, and you're there _alone_ and --”

And, and, and. He feels like he's going to vomit.

“Genji.” Hanzo’s voice is firm, but not upset. “Breath.”

He tries too, in through his nose and out through his mouth. Genji wonders idly if this is how Hanzo felt when he was out during the full moon with McCree, uncertain of what would happen, if there was any danger. There had been, just not the kind they expected.

“The police are here, a few government officials, and I won't be here much longer. Nothing will happen, whoever is against us would be a fool to do so here and now.”

The words do little to calm him.

“Come home.” He doesn't have the energy to hide how childish it sounds.

“I will. Now rest, and tell Oni to start heading to my coordinates.” Quieter, he adds, “It will be alright, Genji, I promise.”

And Genji wants to believe him so badly, but nothing up to this point has been remotely close to “alright”, why shouldn't that pattern persist? Regardless, Genji nods and then gives a vocal confirmation before saying his goodbyes to Hanzo, a small promise that he'll rest and drink water and eat, and the line goes dead. Genji sits there on the couch a moment longer before getting up, wobbling to the bathroom, and vomiting in the sink because he knew he wouldn't make it the short distance to the toilet.

 

McCree wakes to the sound of the shower. The cold pipes whine as hot water rushes through them, rattling a little between the walls. Beside him, the sheets have grown cold. Oni isn't in the armchair anymore, and the smell of something cooking wafts beneath the crack in the door. Groggily he stands, palming the sleep from his eyes as he makes his way to the door.

Oni is in the kitchen packing rice together into little balls, a jar of something that smell a little sour on one side, cooked salmon on the other. They set the one they're working on down and scoops a small ball of rice from the cooker into their hand. They look up as they spread the sour paste in the center, nod to McCree as they begin rolling that one too. He nods in turn and circles back towards the bathroom. It's quiet behind the door save for the water running. McCree knocks on the door, loud enough to be heard above the shower.

“Genji?” He calls. “You alright?”

“The young master is suffering from dehydration and extreme fatigue,” Oni answers him from down the hall.

“I'm fine.” Genji answers from the shower. McCree isn't sure if he heard the omnic or not, but his timing is impeccable.

“You need anything?”

Again, Oni begins to answer, rattling off a list of things, but Genji says, words muddled in with Oni’s, “No… thank you.”

Quieter, Oni tuts. “He is being stubborn. Strong, but stubborn. It runs in the family.”

McCree chuckles at that. He's certainly familiar with that aspect of the Shimadas. Off-handedly he wonders how familiar Oni is with them, how long they've been under their employment. They're trustworthy, that much he knows, given that the brothers have done nothing to hide McCree from them. He wants to ask, but there's a stirring from the bathroom.

“Jesse?” A long, patient pause. “Can you… come in here, please?”

Trustworthy enough, perhaps, not to tell Hanzo about just how close his “young master” and this associate have gotten. McCree can only hope. He pushes the door open slowly, and the air in the room is not as humid as he expected it. Either Genji’s been here for longer than he expected, or a hot shower isn't recommended in his condition. McCree closes the door behind him, leaning against it, waiting for further explanation. Another minute passes, however, and he thinks there might not be one.

“I feel light headed,” says Genji, voice quiet. “I don't really trust my legs right now.”

McCree nods, understanding. “You want me to stay till you're done?”

“Please?”

He sits himself on the toilet seat, half facing the shower panel just in case Genji slips. He doesn't, but by the vague, blurry outline the sliding door offers it shows how slow he's moving, how he leans against the wall with one hand, on his shoulder to keep himself upright.

McCree doesn't remember much from his younger years in Deadlock, but he can imagine he probably looked a lot like this. Coming to from a night he can't remember, had no control over, only to be thrown back into his own body that feels as new as a newborn deer. He can't begin to imagine what happened to Genji last night, not internally anyway, but it's obvious it took a lot out of him. The air had almost been suffocating in that cavern when his dragon manifested. McCree remembers touching Genji’s tattoo back at the suite. It had been warm, warmer than the rest of him, but this had been something tenfold.

The heat had not been the problem. McCree had felt drawn to it, an energy crawling up his skin like goosebumps, touching at his nerves. He'd felt like shifting, and for McCree that was a new feeling. A weird feeling. He isn't sure if it was an uncomfortable feeling, it ended just as fast as it had begun, but his wolf was singing with the energy in the room. He'd felt something a little similar when Hanzo had manifested his, but the energy was electric, needles up his spine, and too little.

Not to mention the adrenaline had already taken hold falling tens of feet off a cliff to save Genji. Priorities.

The shower stops, but Genji doesn't leave immediately. His forehead is resting on the tiles. McCree doesn't rush him, but he does grab a clean towel from the rack and holds it out at the door. He averts his eyes when the panel slides open, the weight of the towel leaving his hands. Genji chuckles quietly, and McCree glances at him.

“Ever the gentleman,” he says.

“Southern charm.” McCree winks. “Here, sit.”

He gets up from the toilet and Genji goes to sit almost immediately. He takes another towel from the rack, this one smaller, to dry his hair. The motions are slow, much slower than when Genji had taken care of him after his bath, and McCree wonders if he should reciprocate it here. He doesn't want to toe the line between helping and disrespect.

Slowly, McCree moves his flesh hand over to touch at Genji’s wrist. “Would you like me to?”

He nods beneath the towel and lets his hands drop into his lap. McCree is careful, but firm as he towel dries his hair. Genji is putty beneath him, looking exhausted whenever McCree gets a peek at him. Peering over his shoulder, hunched towards McCree, he can see the green dragon tattoo spanning his back, normal as the first day he saw it.

“So, was that, uh… normal?” McCree asks.

“What?”

“The passing out.”

Genji snorts. “I hope not. Hanzo didn't.”

“Hanzo didn't summon a whole goddamn dragon.”

He hums. “No, he didn't. I'm almost afraid for him when he does.”

“Why’s that?”

“He has two.”

It's McCree’s turn to hum, then, teasingly, “Sounds like someone's compensating.”

That gets an abrupt bark of laughter from Genji. It’s an improvement from the tired sulking and McCree writes it off as a small win.

“How come he gets two?”

Genji shrugs beneath the towel. “I don’t know. We don’t know much of anything about this gift. Originally, we had gotten the tattoos based off a story our father told us, a… reminder of sorts. Lately it’s felt like more of a conduit.”

He falls silent, and McCree doesn’t push it.

“I wish I knew more.” Genji says, melancholy, almost to himself.

McCree finishes up drying his hair and rubs the towel back, wrapping it loosely over the other’s shoulders.

“C’mon, let’s get you dressed.”

 

Oni leaves shortly after Genji dresses. They bring in a large platter of rice balls and points to some specific ones, instructing Genji to eat those first. To McCree, they nod, staring at him a little longer than feels necessary, then departs. Genji doesn't do much besides flop onto the bed back first and lie there with his eyes shut until McCree speaks up.

“You should eat.”

Genji lets out a soft sigh. “Yeah.”

“Want me to feed you?” Jokes McCree.

He pouts up at him, feigning immobility. “Yes.”

They don't, but they do sit cross legged on the bed, eating the too early breakfast Oni made them. It's delicious; the ones McCree is allowed to eat are filled with fresh salmon slathered in a thin spread of seasoned mayonnaise. Genji’s smell like fruit, but when offered one it's anything but sweet. He tries not to make a face, but given Genji’s laugh it's not working.

“It's pickled plum paste. It's sour, but it's popular during the summer to help with heat exhaustion.”

“No, it's good,” McCree manages, licking the roof of his mouth. “How are you feeling?”

“Better.” He digs the heels of his hands into the dip beneath his eyes. “I just wish I could make sense of all this. It's driving me crazy.”

“I'm sure Hanzo will come back with the answers we need,” McCree assures, reaching for another rice ball until Genji takes his wrist.

He looks up and sees Genji staring almost spacey at him through his damp hair. He opens his mouth to speak, closes it as if thinking better of it, then again, this time squeezing the other’s wrist a little tighter.

“Who… was she?” Genji almost whispers the question, as if ashamed to ask. “Amélie.”

Ah. One of the few questions Hanzo won't find answers to. At least, he thinks he won't. There's no telling what's actually in all of those caverns and what they'll find. McCree knows they won't find the real Amélie, the one who dances in front of a full house and warmly pinches McCree’s cheek when he gives a bit of attitude.

“She wasn't an agent, if that's what you're asking.” The grip on his wrist loosens a bit. “Amélie used to be married to an Overwatch agent, high ranking, a harpy like Gabe. He was spearheading some big missions to oust Talon until they kidnapped his wife.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Genji drags his hands down his face, hiding it behind closed fingers. “What the fuck did they do to her? I've never seen an aranea like that.”

McCree bites his tongue. He isn't sure he wants to tell Genji she was never an aranea to begin with. It isn't like he'll never tell him, it seems like important information given what Amélie had said. Talon wants the Shimadas alive, and it isn't going to take them long to put two and two together once they know she was human. He wonders if Talon knows they aren't actually dragons, that it's _complicated_ given Genji’s exact words.

“I'm sorry.”

Genji’s words break his reverie, how wet they sound. It's surprising, so much so McCree forgets to ask for what. He doesn't need to.

“I'm sorry for killing her.”

The guilt is unexpected and unnecessary, but not unwelcomed.

“Genji…” McCree puts a hand on his shoulder, moving closer. “Don't, there wasn't anything left of her in there. If anything it was a mercy. She was never suppose to be… she was never like that, like us.”

“And what about Gabriel?” Genji pushes his hands back through his hair. “If it had not been for you we would've hunted him like a monster without a second thought. Without knowing who he was and what he's trying to do.”

“That's a very different circumstance.”

“How? How is it different? The U.N. forced you to kill your friends out of some kind of mercy, but who is to say they weren't like Gabriel? That Amélie wasn't like Gabriel?”

“Amélie was human.”

McCree blurts it out and almost regrets it, but he thinks it's better than Genji thinking he killed someone who was still of sane mind. Even if she had been, somewhere, to live the rest of her life like that? McCree would've wished for death. The look of realization in Genji’s eyes is almost painful to watch though.

“She was human, Genji.” He repeats. “Trust me, what you did was a mercy.”

He doesn't even want to begin to think about what they'd do to Genji, Hanzo, what sort of sick and perverted mash of parts and DNA they'd put together like a horror movie.

To honor their mother.

To Genji’s credit, he doesn't vomit. He looks like he needs to, but he doesn't. Instead he cards his hands through his hair once, twice, three times pulling at the brown roots growing in. Breathes in and holds it before blowing it out slowly. Stares.

“Okay.” He breathes in again. “Okay.”

“Okay?” McCree tilts his head.

Genji laughs, breathy and a little hysterical. “No, no I'm the furthest thing from okay. I'm just thinking.”

He doesn't elaborate and McCree doesn't ask about it. He does ask, however, if he wants more water. Genji looks like he needs it and he nods, pressing his hand into his mouth and looking off at something else. McCree gets up and heads to the kitchen, two empty glasses in hand. He returns quickly and Genji hasn't moved from his spot on the bed, legs crossed in front of him and fingers running across dry lips.

“Jesse,” he says as he takes the glass from him. “Do you know what sort of stuff Amélie’s husband was getting into?”

“No. Gabe barely let me know what was going on on our side unless I was a part of the mission; even then it was need to know.”

“Do you think,” Genji begins slowly. “He did that on purpose? Not because you weren't qualified for the information, but so you wouldn't get targeted the way her husband did.”

No, if he was being honest, he hadn't thought of that. McCree had had a knack, at the beginning, of putting his nose where it didn't belong. Like in the Overwatch records. After he'd gotten caught Gabriel had made an effort to keep classified files hidden a little deeper. He figured it was the same deal when Talon started acting up, but what Genji says make a lot more sense.

“You said you were targeted anyway, but in an effort to dismantle Blackwatch. Why?”

“Because we were getting too close,” answers McCree. “Being guinea pigs was just a bonus.”

“And us?” Genji continues. “What better way to ensure their monsters don't get hunted by getting us out of the way? Turning us into… _tools_ is just added insult.

“So the only real question is who wants us _dead_ and why. Who else are we a problem for?”

Genji’s phone rings, loud and bright, and it makes the two of them jump. He looks at the I.D. before picking up.

“Hanzo?”

McCree can hear Hanzo’s voice on the other end, but it doesn't do him any good if he isn't speaking English. He tries to read their inflections instead, as he usually does when they talk, listens for his name. Hanzo sounds angry, firm, and in the background he can barely make out the sound of something else. Genji sounds confused, repeating what sounds like a name. _Hoshi_. Hanzo says it too, and the thing in the background sort of whines, high and panicked.

Genji mutters something, and then a goodbye before hanging up. He looks at his phone a long while before turning to McCree.

“How are you with interrogations?”

 

⭐️

 

The door nearly slams open, followed by Hanzo with a faintly struggling body thrown over his shoulder. Oni brings up the rear, gun in hand as they shut the door quietly behind them. There isn't anywhere proper to do an interrogation at the cottage, it wasn't really meant for that, but Hanzo had instructed Genji to set up something in the living room. The armchair from his room has been dragged in, the ropes have been brought in from the car, draped around Oni’s shoulder, blinds shut, the room dark. McCree is sitting in the corner of the L-shaped couch, legs out, knees wide, fully dressed. Genji, too, is dressed in full uniform, short sword across his lower back. He looks a little less strung out than before, having eaten the rest of their breakfast and drank plenty of water. The stress still keeps him on edge, but Hoshi would never see it. He's too panicked to see much of anything.

Hanzo sets him down into the chair non-too gently and Oni gets to tying. Hoshi doesn't begin to struggle until he looks behind the brothers and sees McCree, eyes alight. He knows he's wanted, what he is, what he's done. He's afraid that that might be his end today too. Genji unsheathes his sword and puts it to his neck, and that gets him to stop fidgeting at the very least. His wide eyes don't leave McCree though, and he smiles wolfishly at him, making sure it stretches wide enough to show off his sharp canines. Hoshi whines behind the cloth gag in his mouth, held in by duct tape. The very same tape stretches around his arms pulled behind his back, and his ankles bound together.

Once he's situated and bound, Genji removes the sword, though it doesn't leave his hand, and looks to Hanzo. Hanzo looks worse still, chunks of hair flying out from his ponytail, some matted to his face with dirt and sweat. His once white uniform is caked in dirt and smeared streaks of red. Regardless, McCree’s never seen him more intimidating. Between him and Genji, he isn't sure why he was asked to help. The two brothers are enough to scare him, and he's on their good side.

“You answer our questions, you leave with all your limbs.” Hanzo explains in English, for McCree’s benefit maybe. “Understood?”

Hoshi nods, eyes darting between both Shimadas and McCree behind them. He looks caged, Hanzo and Genji framing either side of him with McCree constantly in his center view. Though Oni isn't in sight of him, they are standing in front of the archway that leads to the hallway, metal hands folded in front of them, gun held comfortably in one palm.

Hanzo moves to rip the tape from Hoshi’s mouth, the man yelping at the sting, and pulls the cloth out between clenched, bleeding teeth. His lower lip is busted, Hanzo’s doing. Hoshi licks them, red bleeding into his tongue, and nervously looks between all three men in front of him.

“Do you want to tell them what I caught you doing, or shall I?” Asks Hanzo, voice almost condescending, like talking to a child who got caught with their hand in the cookie jar before supper.

Hoshi looks embarrassed, ashamed even, but only looks down at his lap without a word.

“I found Hoshi tampering with evidence,” he turns to his brother. “He was dragging the bodies of our dead Clan members away from the entrance. He was heading to the West exit, right?”

Hoshi says nothing, but nods, barely.

“Not only that, I found quite a few interesting things on his datapad.”

Hanzo fishes for it in his uniform, hands it to Genji. It's already open, showing a very familiar looking document.

“So you _did_ mess with the medical files from the dead agents during the full moon?” Genji glances up at their captive, nodding again in the barest of movements. “You also called in the deaths; how did you know?”

He swallows dryly, licks his lips again as he spars a shaky look at Genji. In Japanese, he answers, “I-I was informed.”

“In English,” Hanzo instructs.

Hoshi repeats himself, in English so nothing has to be repeated to McCree. It's faster this way.

“By whom?” Asks Genji.

“Heart monitors attached to them. Once they went dead, I called it in.” He looks up at McCree nervously, silver eyes alit in the dark room. Even like this, human and fully dressed, his presence is heavy. “They were bait, expendable.”

“So you knew they weren't our men?” Hanzo steps forward, garnering attention away from the elephant in the room.

Hoshi has a hard time looking at him in the eyes, the shame reddening his face, the tips of his ears, splotchy down his neck. “N-No, of course I knew, Lord Shimada.”

“Would you feel more or less uncomfortable had they been ours?” Genji asks, tilting his head to one side, arms crossed over his chest. “More or less comfortable knowing they were Talon agents, an organization not in league with ours? Did it make you feel more or less comfortable knowing I was out there in the midst of it?”

Hanzo and Genji do interrogations the way they do nearly everything else; with sharp and dangerous perfection. It depends on the client, the event, if there are any prior terms they need to fill before they start. It's perfectly executed each and every time. They're good at reading people and the situation, what it calls for, how to really weasel what they need out of their main course. Sometimes it's violent, sometimes it's just a simple hour of blackmail. This time is a little different; they've never had to interrogate one of their own. Hoshi’s family has been with them since their father ran the Shimada Clan, so it takes them both a little by surprise that he's here, now, tied to a chair and being shamed into giving them information. As angry as Hanzo looks, neither he nor Genji want to hurt him. He isn't a bad guy, there has to be more to this.

Hoshi hides his face again as best he can, chin tucked into his chest as Genji drills him.

“I…” he starts, pauses for a dry swallow, continues, “I knew you were out there, but I did not have a choice. I would have felt further regret had you been injured, but not if those agents had been our people.”

Genji shifts, curious. “Why not?”

He gets a little more confident in his speech and lowers his voice, as if afraid someone who shouldn't be is listening. “They would have been truly disloyal to you.”

“What makes you any different?” Hanzo narrows his eyes. “Interrogations are reserved for those disloyal to us.”

Hoshi shakes his head. “No, n-no I am different, I do not have a choice! Many of us do not have a choice.”

Genji quirks an eyebrow. “Many?”

“Our families,” Hoshi presses his lips together, almost afraid to say anything more. Lower still, he repeats, “Our families. They have them.”

“Who?”

Hoshi shakes his head again. Hanzo makes an impatient click with his tongue. Genji squats down next to the chair, trying to catch the man’s attention as he hangs his head, shaking it lightly in regretful rejection.

“Hoshi,” he taps on the arm of the chair. “Your family has been with us a long time. Your father was to ours as you should be to us; loyal. Hanzo and I keep our own safe, protected, it's what comes with our leadership. It's insulting --”

“I do not mean to, I--”

Genji puts a hand up. He stops talking. “It's insulting to us that you don't want to come to us for help, that whatever is going on behind our backs is something we can't handle.”

“Communication between myself, Genji, and the Clan is important,” Hanzo chimes in. “We can't fight what we don't know about. If you truly are loyal to us, to the Shimada Clan--”

Hoshi lets out a quiet string of “ _I am, I am, I am, I promise,_ ” that doesn't quite interrupt Hanzo.

“-- you will tell us who has your family. Who has you running errands that conflict with our job, our duty to our country. What coward is sending others to do the dirty work and hiding behind your families. Who has you running scared.”

“And Hoshi,” Genji says, voice tilted up as if speaking to a child again. “Think really hard about who you're more scared of; the coward holding your family hostage, or our friend sitting on the couch.”

McCree grins, wide enough to sport his canines, and waves a little with his flesh hand. He lets his nails grow out a bit further, their silhouette against the rising sun coming in through the cracks in the blinds looking hooked and sharp. Hoshi fidgets in his seat, pressing back hard into the cushions. He won't be surprised to see an indent of his body in it when they're finished.

“I…” he starts and looks on the verge of tears, eyes darting from McCree to Genji to Hanzo and back again. “Please, _please_ , I can't, they will hurt them, I _can't_!”

Hanzo’s patience, thin as it is, stretches just a bit further. It's enough to let out a hard sigh and throw his hands out in front of him before shaking his head, looking to Genji.

“I'm not sitting here playing twenty questions.” He says with finality in his voice, nodding over in McCree’s direction.

He leaves, taking Oni with him. Genji spins on his heels to look at McCree, giving him a knowing look. He leans over to him as the other gets up, spurs jingling quietly as he settles himself upright.

“Do whatever it is you're comfortable with,” Genji instructs in a whisper, ignoring Hoshi’s pleas behind him. “Just don't hurt him, okay?”

“Can do.” He tilts his hat at him before taking it off altogether, setting it down on the couch.

Genji nods at him once more in thanks before following Hanzo, not sparing even a glance at Hoshi as he nearly screams for mercy. He isn't going to be hurt, though their poor captive doesn't know that, so he isn't immediately worried about what will go on behind the panel door as he shuts it. He does, however, worry for the upholstery in case McCree gets a little creative. Or Hoshi gets the piss scared out of him. It's happened more than once, just not on their furniture. A small sacrifice, he thinks, and preemptively tosses his farewells to the faded cream armchair.

 

“Oni, take a look at some of these e-mails,” Genji passes them the tablet after having a look see through most of it. “Do you think you can trace them?”

Their decorated faceplate tilts in curiosity as they take the device from him. “I can try.”

It's been about an hour or so since they left McCree with Hoshi. The first half was loud, loud enough that come the early morning, a passerbyer knocked on their door, questioning. Hanzo had answered it, giving the older woman a charming smile and a nearly truthful answer.

“Hunting dogs.” He'd said. “We're thinking of a new approach to some things. Sorry about the noise.”

Hanzo walked her back to the market, more of a display than it had been for niceties. When he returns, Hoshi has quieted. Passed out, Genji informs, hyperventilated.

“McCree partially shifted.”

It isn't long before he's up again. It's quieter, McCree’s low honey accent coming through easily.

Now it's the waiting game, and Oni busies themself with the tablet, browsing through e-mails and texts. A finger joint flips open and they stick it into a port, head tilting as they run a program through. Genji found anonymous messages, orders to Hoshi, what to do, where to go. The last order is to leave the West exit of the caverns, a map -- useful and saved for later -- and directions on where to go from there. These date back to about a month ago, and Hanzo comments on how strange it is that they aren't deleted. Genji thinks optimistically that perhaps Hoshi meant for someone to find it, an “accident” so he wouldn't get his family in trouble. Hanzo seems skeptical, but doesn't dismiss the idea. Hoshi’s family are good people, neither one of them really want to condemn him. Despite that, they don't take betrayal lightly and Hoshi is dancing on the thin line of it.

Oni makes a sudden and loud static noise that sounds almost painful, causing the brothers to jump in surprise as they drop the datapad. Their voicebox crackles indistinctly as they try to speak. They stop, shake their head, and try again.

“I am afraid I have b-bad news, Lord Shimada,” says Oni, voice a little broken. “I have found the source of the messages sent to Hoshi and, presumably, the others he's spoken about.”

“I assume it's the source that's the bad news,” Hanzo says, picking up the tablet. “What was that static about?”

Oni clears their voicebox, speech smoother when they answer, “There was feedback when I found the source. A firewall. I handled it.”

“And the source?” Asks Genji.

There's a hesitation to answer, and Oni fidgets with their fingers, realigning the finger joint they'd taken off earlier to connect to the tablet. They look at Genji briefly, then to Hanzo before straightening up, brushing their metal hands over their suit.

“The source is coming from one of my own.”

Oh. Hanzo straights, frown deepening. “Who?”

Again, hesitation. “Unit number BD-4K; Daliah.” Oni bows, deeply. “Please let me handle it.”

They're all quiet a moment, giving it thought, digesting the new discovery. It leaves them with, again, more questions. It's beginning to get infuriating.

Hanzo breathes in slowly, hand brushing stray strands of hair out of his face. He looks to be holding it together a lot better than Genji expects after a night of no sleep and no good news. Regardless, he knows when they have a moment of reprieve Hanzo will collapse. He lets the breath out just as slowly as he brought it in.

“A corrupt omnic. Wonderful,” Hanzo sighs. “And how do we know you aren't equally corrupt?”

It isn't meant to be harsh, but it comes out as such, causing a twitch in Oni’s movements.

“With respect, I have been waiting on the two of you the past several weeks.”

Genji steps forward as a thought hits him. “You drove McCree and I out on the full moon; my equipment from the vehicle was bugged to be picked up by Talon. What do you have to say about that?”

Oni’s head tilts, stiffly looking towards Genji. There is anger in their voice when they speak, but not at the accusation.

“I picked the car up from the Estate… Daliah had it readied.” They bow again, not lifting back up as they speak. “I apologize for my short sightedness. I should have picked up on this sooner.”

Hanzo is quiet, as is Genji. If it were up to the youngest, he would have to think on it. He feels slighted by whoever is at fault for his bugged equipment, be it Oni, Daliah, or both. It put not only himself in danger, but McCree as well. Though they weren't hurt much, it put a larger target on McCree, making their teamwork a bit more complicated. He has to wonder when this started; if it's when Hanzo ordered Oni and their team to check out McCree’s shack of a hideout, or before then, a moment when the brothers might have accidentally slighted the omnics, or perhaps before when their father was still alive and in charge. Since the end of the Omnic War, the Shimadas tried to keep up with the mood of the conclusion of it. Their father tried to make sure the omnics felt like part of the Clan and not an accessory. Genji thinks they've done a good job with it, but perhaps this is a sign they haven't. Perhaps it's something else altogether. It's dizzying to think about.

“It isn't your fault.” Hanzo puts a hand on Oni’s shoulder. “If you're truly innocent in this, don't blame yourself. There is a lot that I myself have… overlooked in the last few days I will admit. Much is coming to light that I never thought would come to our country, it's taking us all by surprise.”

It's strange to finally hear Hanzo admit he's been wrong about the Talon fiasco as a whole, especially after his stubbornness about it. Genji wishes, still, that he wasn't, that this wasn't happening, that McCree was actually chasing ghosts of his past and Talon was long gone. But it's here and real, in their home, in the Shimada Clan, right under their noses and don't they look the fools just now figuring out the inner workings. That Hanzo says it makes it more real, truer than it's ever been.

“Keep it quiet for now,” he instructs, patting Oni’s back as they straighten and look at Hanzo, leveled. “I don't want anyone knowing we have Hoshi. If we can trick them into sending him another message, perhaps we can catch someone in the act.”

Oni nods, glances at Genji who's not taken his eyes off the omnic since their new revelation, and nods once more for good measure. If an omnic could look flustered, this is it; wringing their hands, flexing their fingers, making the motions of taking in a breath and letting nothing out. Omnics have always been a strange thing to them, but they trust their own. Sort of. At the very least, Oni.

They were made soon after their mother died. An older model by today’s standards, but they've upgraded them as necessary to keep Oni in working order. Their father had them stay with his sons, mostly, their faceplate less striking and vicious when they were younger as not to scare them. Not entirely a glorified nursemaid, moreso a bodyguard when they got up to no good. When Hanzo learned to climb trees, and Genji next, faster, too slippery to catch, and they would climb the Estate walls to venture out when Father was too busy and they were old enough to know Oni shadowed them. Oni taught them self defense on occasion, how to break an assailant's arm for one and when their private school calls their father to inform them Hanzo’s broken some student’s arm -- they were picking on Genji, he tells him later on the car ride home with little remorse in his voice; that's not self defense, says their father -- there were tweaks that needed to be made. Oni was not a replacement for anyone, just another part of the family, so it hurts when Genji can't bring himself to trust them one hundred percent. He knows Hanzo doesn't either, but he wants to play the devil’s advocate. They need to be able to trust _someone_.

The door to the living room slides open, and McCree pokes his head out, knocking his metal hand on the wall to grab their attention quietly.

“I think I got something.”

It isn't a name, but it's something alright. Hoshi is red faced when they get in, cheeks wet and eyes puffy, nose running freely. He doesn't immediately look up when the brothers reenter the room, he seems more focused on recentering his breathing more than anything else. McCree squats in front of the chair and Hoshi twitches a little, eyeing him carefully, assessing whether or not he really needs to be scared of him. He hasn't touched him, just gotten very, very close, close enough to see the wolf behind those gleaming eyes. Fear tactics, the same he'd used on Genji when they first met; a whole lot of bark with little to no bite behind it. When he'd met Genji, taken him into the alley, he would've fought had the need arisen. With Hoshi, tied to an armchair and pissing himself, well it seems hardly fair and a little sad.

“M’kay, one more time, yeah?” McCree says to Hoshi, tapping a metal hand to his knee. “Exactly what you told me.”

He takes in a shaky, wet breath before starting, focusing his attention on his boots.

“The higher ups of the Clan are working with this Talon. I had never heard of th-them until I accidentally walked in on a vid call at the Elder’s Sanctuary. I could not make out who it was, I-I swear, I swear it I do not know, but that omnic Daliah caught me running.

“They put Talon agents in charge of looking after my family's… safety,” he nearly spits the word out, a mockery of what it truly means. “They will kill them if they know I talked to you, if they know I messed up!”

He pauses to take a steadier breath, to calm himself down.

“I was suppose to take the bodies of our people and leave them in the West wing of the caverns you found and torch the place. You are not suppose to know they are there; it was not only the ones you sent to check the disturbance. They were also ones replaced with Talon agents, those who did not comply and have anything but themselves to lose.

“I know I am not the only family, but I do not know specifically who, I only know more Talon agents pretending to be our people have been ordered to stand guard and wait for a call. But I also know there are some who have not been forced into this like me. I believe an Elder may be one of them, the one I caught talking to Talon.”

Hoshi becomes silent, signaling the end to his information. McCree stands and motions forward with his hands.

“That what you wanted?”

Hanzo makes a noncommittal noise. “It's something.”

“It's Yori.”

Genji says it with all the confidence and anger in the world, ignores the quiet sigh that leaves Hanzo and the almost skeptical look Hoshi offers.

“Elder Yori?” He questions meekly. “He was your father’s most loyal council member.”

“Our father is dead.” Genji says, words hardened. “And if I'm being honest --”

“Genji…” Hanzo sighs again.

“-- he was only ever kissing Father’s ass.”

“Genji!” Hanzo slams a hand down onto the arm of the chair, spooking Hoshi. Even McCree takes a step back so that he isn't directly between them. “Enough.”

“ _Enough_?” Genji barks a breathy laugh. “How can you still stand there and vouch for him? He does nothing but berate you, blame me, treat us like children instead of leaders, his superiors.”

“He may not respect us, but to do this? To go this far? Working with Talon?”

“You remember what that monster said. Talon wants us alive, someone else wants us dead.”

Hanzo balks. “You think _Yori_ wants us dead? That's absurd.”

Genji makes a muted, frustrated noise in the back of his throat, hands flexing. “The Council has you wrapped around their finger so tightly don't they?”

“That has nothing to do with this.” Hanzo frowns deeply. “What proof do we have -- Hoshi’s word?”

“I'd take his word over the Council.”

“And that is why I am where I am, as head of the Shimada Clan, and not you.”

Hanzo’s words are hard and sharp, more so than he meant it but with all the frustration pent up from what's been going on it's snappish. To his credit, Genji doesn't flinch at his words but it still hurts. His hands clench at his sides and he looks ready to argue, but he abstains from it. Instead Genji tries not to look petulant when he crosses his arms over his chest slowly, averting his attention back to Hoshi.

“Is that all?” His voice is tight.

Hoshi nods, looking between Hanzo and Genji as if following the tension with his eyes. He opens his mouth in direct contrast to saying he was finished, stops to lick his dry lips and maybe think about his words before he speaks.

In Japanese, Hoshi asks, “Why is the werewolf with you?”

The brothers glance over their shoulder to McCree, standing quiet and still behind them as to not garner unnecessary attention.

“Because he is a good man.”

Genji answers in English, confident and almost proud. The same can't be said for the look he gives Hanzo before he leaves the room, brushing past Oni towards the front door.

 

⭐️

 

Even without Genji in the cottage, the air is tense. Hanzo is all frayed nerves, teetering on the edge of something. Whether it's a breakdown or plain shutting down McCree isn't sure, but he's not about to tell him what to do. Oni has that unenviable job, though Hanzo doesn't snap at them much; an annoyed _I heard you_ here and an _I will_ there with extra attitude.

They've decided not to act quite yet. Hanzo is going a full twenty-four hours without sleep, and that's running him ragged through what little sleep he got the night before. It's starting to show and he's still going, barely. Hoshi is left tied to the chair; they aren't sure they can fully trust him yet and he doesn't seem to blame them for it. If anything, the urine smell seeping into the fabric is the biggest issue for him in his position. Should he be contacted, then they'll act. If not, well… it isn't like they don't have a list of things to do, but Hanzo would rather they do them in some sort of order. Oni is particularly antsy to leave; they feel guilty over one of their own being corrupt. McCree’s never felt one way or another towards omnics, if anything he thinks they're like the rest of the conscious bodies on this rock. They have their good eggs and their bad. He does, however, feel a bit sorry for Oni.

Genji doesn't come back for a long time, long enough that when he does Hanzo has finally passed out on his bed, phone and tablet spread across the comforter in front of him like he hadn't meant to doze off. No one dares wake him, he needs his sleep. Genji comes back with takeout for Hanzo when he wakes, McCree if he's hungry -- along with a box of cigars that, while they aren't his particular brand, are a goddamn sight for sore eyes -- and even some for Hoshi, Oni offering to feed him just to give them something to do other than fret.

McCree ducks into Genji’s room when it's offered to him as a place to smoke. He opens the window enough to stick his head and arm out, the cold morning air fighting against the heat of the room. Fishing the lighter from his pocket, McCree lights the cigar and already feels the stress leaving his shoulders, the heat of it filling his lungs. It's an awkward set up with him hunched over and leaning on the windowsill, but if it's enough for a smoke he hasn't had in awhile he'll deal with it.

“Sorry they are not your brand,” Genji says, voice quiet as he shakes his coat off. “Cigars aren't really our thing, it's more a businessman’s luxury so finding your expensive taste is difficult in this small town.”

“Don't even think about worryin’ your pretty head over it, nicotine’s nicotine at this point.”

McCree grins around the cigar, over his shoulder to watch Genji. He's standing in the middle of the room with his coat in hand, almost expectantly, but of what McCree isn't sure. He takes the cigar out from between his lips and offers it to the other. Genji shakes his head, looks down at his boots a moment, then pulls his coat back on just draped over his shoulders. He comes over to stand next to McCree, shoulder to shoulder, but doesn't look at him, just stares into the empty lot next to the cottage.

“You okay?” McCree asks and before he can even get the second word out of his mouth he knows it's a stupid question.

Genji folds his arms onto the sill and lays his cheek against them, glancing at McCree. His eyes look puffy in the proper light of day. He shrugs and looks away from him, out at the lot again. It's a nice property, if not a little overgrown. Unkempt, but perhaps it's purposeful.

“Is this…” Genji starts and stops, swallowing. “Is this what it felt like, watching Blackwatch fall apart?”

And if that isn't a loaded question. McCree fidgets a bit where he stands, rolls the cigar between his fingers as he thinks. It does seem like Talon’s specialty doesn't it, tearing things apart from the inside out. They've infiltrated the Shimada Empire and that's no small feat. The approach may be different, but the endgame seems the same; to knock out another organization that could stand in their way. And that's the problem isn't it, they see an organization where those apart of it see it as something much more.

McCree takes a long drag of the cigar before answering, blowing the smoke out slow and downwind.

“It'll be different this time,” he says, leaning to one side, facing more towards Genji. “Talon won't succeed.”

“You sound so sure,” Genji mumbles.

“We're close! We're _so_ close, Talon’s desperate. With just a little more evidence, your government will be all over them,” McCree grins a little, nudging the other. “It'll be over soon. You won't have to watch your family fall apart the way I did.”

Maybe he's being a little optimistic, but he doesn't want to see it again. The Shimada Clan might be an empire of the best hunters this side of the world, but it's Genji’s home the way Blackwatch was to McCree; he's not going to see Talon repeat its atrocities. Besides, that's why he's here in the first place. If they don't start the ball rolling here, what he and Gabe have done will be a waste. Not to mention how close he's gotten to Genji. This all feels personal again, it feels like it did several years ago.

“It does feel like it's close to ending, hm?” Genji perks up a bit, raising an eyebrow at McCree. “What are you going to do after this is all done?”

In all honesty, he hasn't thought about it much. McCree figures he'll continue following Gabriel, move onto the next hotspot, oust Talon, rinse and repeat. They might need to after this is done here, they might not. If not, then… well, he isn't sure. It isn't like he has a stable home anymore. After the explosion at the U.N., McCree just sort of drifted away to the States, from one city to another, trying to keep low, to keep his head on straight or maybe lose it. Lena had offered him a room in her apartment in England with her girlfriend Emily, but he'd declined. That seemed normal, and McCree had been feeling anything but. When this is all over and the Japanese government can deal with it themselves, McCree isn't sure what kind of condition things will be in. Maybe normal, somewhat, enough to visit. He's sure Lena will be excited after so long.

Not forever though, he thinks. A visit at most, and then he wants to he back out helping Gabriel. Habit, he thinks, to want to be with his Commander, to serve, to help. It makes the sins of his past feel far away, buried deep beneath all the good he's done since he got picked up out of Deadlock.

“I dunno,” he says after a while of thinking and one more long drag. “This, I guess, until Talon’s out of the picture for good.”

Genji blinks at him. “Just you?”

“And Gabe.” He reminds him.

“And Gabe…” he repeats. “Away from here?”

McCree chuckles quietly, offering Genji a sideways look. “Something tells me we ain't gonna be welcome after this is all said and done. We aren't even welcome now as it is.”

Genji hums, averts his eyes elsewhere and McCree can't help but question.

Genji is, of course, the unknown variable in all this. Getting close was playing dangerously, but now that the danger has settled and given way to something better, softer, sweeter, they're left with something else. Something, McCree thinks, that will be difficult to continue and maintain after this is all over. It's written all over Genji’s face, usually a skilled mask in place giving little away, now an open book with an answer to the question McCree still asks.

“Do you want me to stay?”

McCree isn't sure what sort of answer he wants. No will make it easier, but it'll hurt. Yes will make this more difficult. The answer is right there, how he hesitates and readjusts his position on the windowsill before straightening up altogether just to lean on his hands. The answer is on his face, skin patched with red on the tip of his nose, flushed across his cheeks and the shell of his ears, the cold having nipped at him. The answer, McCree thinks, is on the tip of his tongue but he swallows it for something else, something neutral.

“You're free to do whatever you want.”

“But do _you_ want me to stay?” McCree asks again, turning away from the window to lean his back against the sill. He leaves the cigar on the lip of it.

Genji sidles up beside him, closer than before, and grins up at him sharply. “You don't want me to answer that, cowboy.”

“I dunno, I mean, I did ask.” McCree shrugs, offering a lopsided grin in return. “Twice.”

Genji hums and his smile softens at the edges as he looks away, his stare far off and thinking. The other man shrugs minutely, nudging Genji gently, shoulder to shoulder. He looks away again, at the floor, and for once his silence grates on McCree but he’s patient. After a moment or two, Genji looks up at him as if he wants to say something but doesn’t, just stares as if the words he’s looking for are on McCree’s face. Maybe they are. Regardless, he remains quiet. The touch at McCree’s hand has him almost flinching away, startled by the new contact. It’s a light touch, Genji’s fingers brushing against his own until they wiggle their way between, curling around his hand. McCree reciprocates, bumping and readjusting their fingers together a little neater, a little firmer. The other smiles, hides his face a little in the curve of McCree’s arm as he sighs. Genji doesn’t have to say it.

He’s glad for it, McCree thinks, as it keeps him from saying it too.

 

⭐️

 

Hanzo wakes up to takeout on the kitchen table with a little sticky note stuck to it, his name scribbled on it in angled, hasty handwriting that could only belong to Genji, and feels guilty. He hasn’t seen his brother since he awoke, not in the living room and not in the kitchen. McCree is missing too, and he can only assume they’re in Genji’s room. Hanzo tries not to wrinkle his nose at the thought, remembering instead the parting words he left them with earlier.

 _Because he is a good man_.

My, how the tune has changed. Once upon a time, McCree was merely a tool to be used to find the harpy, then Talon, now… what? A tool no longer, that much Hanzo is sure of, even to him. He is… reliable. A mystery, to Hanzo at the very least, but he feels some truth behind Genji’s words. There are good intentions behind his actions, the time for paranoia of whether Genji would end up dead to the werewolf’s claws long, long behind him. Still, it is the habit of a hunter -- and perhaps that of a Shimada in general -- to be wary. There isn’t much Hanzo truly knows about McCree, only what his brother’s told him, and it keeps him on his toes. Regardless, he doesn’t feel the need to poke his head into Genji’s room to check. He can handle himself.

Besides, he isn’t sure Genji is in the mood to speak with him after their argument. Hanzo’s brows pinch at that. He can chalk it up to the lack of sleep, the frustration towards everything that’s been happening and how more and more questions continue to pop up as the answers to them become practically non-existent. It had been, Hanzo hadn’t meant to snap at Genji like that, but….

Hanzo sighs and pulls his food from the crumpled bag, putting it into the microwave to reheat it.

It’s strange to think how different he and Genji are from one another despite them living in the same house their entire lives. Hanzo has always had a legacy on his shoulders, and it’s unfair to say that Genji doesn’t share the weight, but the majority is his. He wants to build upon what Father left for them, hard earned as it was the last thing he wants to do is see it crumble to the ground under his watch. He wants to see it thrive, to flourish, to be better than it ever was, to _progress_. It’s been difficult with the Council breathing down his neck. If Genji is right about anything, it is that the Council seems to fear progression, at least in the way Hanzo wishes to see it.

The microwave beeps incessantly until Hanzo pulls the door to it open to retrieve his food. He sets it down at the bar counter, settles himself at the stool, says thanks for his food and begins to eat, albeit slowly.

The Council does fight Hanzo on some things, sometimes relentlessly, but can he truly believe what Genji said about them? That they could be the ones trying to off them? It sounds preposterous honestly, but there’s the difference between them seeping through. Genji wasn’t brought up to obey without question, even when they were children. Hanzo remembers how their tutor would threaten to leave half a dozen times a week to their father, attempting to teach them the strategies of taking down particular monsters. When prompted with the task of figuring out what to do first when given a mock hunt, Genji would always follow it up with a _why_ . _Why_ are we hunting it, _why_ are people scared, _why_ is it a threat. At the time it had been infuriating, Hanzo just wanted to be finished with the lesson and move on. Now it is an asset, as Hanzo is terribly prone to overlooking these things that Genji so easily picks up and questions. Maybe now would be a good time to listen to him, given how uncertain everything is, and what Hoshi told them -- if he is even to be trusted.

But first, he thinks as he hears the telltale sounds of a door swinging open, the hinges whining quietly, he needs to apologize to Genji.

“Ah, Sleeping Beauty finally awakens,” Genji says, rounding the corner.

He seems to be in better spirits. They both are after some well-deserved rest. Genji’s hair is sleep-tousled, a warm, reddish mark from where his head was leaning against something marks his cheek. Hanzo nods to him, mouth full of his late lunch.

“Feeling better?”

That depends, really. Sleeping hadn’t made their immediate problems go away, unanswered questions still nipping at his heels, but it had made the pain in his head lessen and the tenseness in his shoulders melt away.

“I am.” He pauses, looking down at his meal. “Thank you for grabbing something to eat.”

Genji hums, leaning one arm on the counter as he goes to steal a limp strip of cabbage from Hanzo’s bowl. He lets him, watches as he slurps it up like a noodle. There's a quiet flinch of regret when the hot vegetable burns the roof of his mouth. The dark circles under his eyes have faded, the awful paleness in his face gone and flushed. It's miles better than what he looked like when he left him in McCree’s care, and Hanzo feels relief.

“I'm sorry.”

Genji says it, and it's not what he's expecting. It must show on his face because his brother laughs a little, melting down into the counter, his arms pillowing his head.

“I'm capable of admitting my faults.”

“I didn't say you weren't.”

“And yet you look surprised.”

Hanzo looks down at his lunch. “Because you aren't the one who should be apologizing.”

Genji manages a shrug. “Not the only one, maybe. I just… I shouldn't have pushed you during the interrogation. I’m frustrated that this is happening, seemingly right under our noses, but I can't jump to conclusions like that. We need to look at all the options.”

The problem is they don't have many options to begin with. There's always the off chance a Talon operative doesn't agree with their plan and wants them dead, though nothing has pointed them in that direction. Hoshi has his concerns and while he and his family have been loyal to the Shimadas for years, Hanzo is having a hard time believing him.

Hanzo doesn't know what to believe. It's been so easy in the years past, the enemy clear as day with one objective. Now the enemy is many and the objective obscured; the things he thought were right might not be so anymore. He frowns, not at Genji, seemingly at the counter, and lets out a quiet sigh.

“That still doesn't excuse what I said.”

“It's true though.” Genji mumbles it. Regardless of whether it is or not, it hurt him to hear it. “You don't question the Council nearly as much as I do. That makes you their favorite.”

“That makes me compliant,” he corrects. “With everything that's been going on, I should be less so.”

“That's why you have me.” Genji grins widely.

Hanzo can't help but smile back. “And I am glad for it. Proud, even.”

“Kissass.” Genji snorts and laughs a little when Hanzo pushes him at the shoulder. “I already forgave you!”

“That doesn't mean I can't still say it, especially after what you did in those tunnels.” He resists the urge to follow up with questions of his well being, he knows Genji’s already gotten that from Oni. “That was astounding.”

“Jealous?” Genji asks cheekily.

Hanzo purses his lips, pauses a long while. “Yes….” He continues over Genji’s loud _hah!_ “But impressed nonetheless. Yours looked whole and almost palpable. How did you do it? What did it feel like?”

He chuckles, looking almost bashful if Hanzo didn't know better. Genji’s eyes are alight when he begins, but he isn't as enthusiastic as he'd thought he would be. Perhaps he feels the same way Hanzo felt when he'd summoned his dragon. It hadn't exactly been the best of occasions for either one of them when it happened.

“I felt like I was drowning in heat, like I was being engulfed it in but it didn't burn, it wasn't uncomfortable. It was just like… this nearly unbearable hot pressure. I wish I knew how I did it, it just sort of happened,” Genji looks at the counter, brows furrowed. “I felt… angry. That _thing_ was talking about Mother like it knew her and just the thought of Talon using her like that….”

He trails off and Hanzo doesn't push. He'd be lying if he said it hadn't unnerved him, the way that monster talked about their mother, their gift.

“Hanzo,” Genji starts and stops abruptly, pressing his lips together. He doesn't look up at him. “McCree knew who that monster had been. She wasn't… she’d been human.”

That catches Hanzo by surprise and he almost argues it, but he remembers the solemn look McCree had had when he looked at its corpse, the way the harpy had almost been _gentle_ with it.

Amélie.

A cold shudder runs up Hanzo’s spine and he does his best to shake it off.

“I'm actually afraid Hanzo,” Genji says, laughing breathily, carding his hands through his mussed hair. “I'm not afraid of dying, but whatever they did to that woman, whatever they're thinking of doing to us - that scares me.”

Hanzo breathes in slowly. Breathes out, even and controlled. As much as he doesn't want to admit it, with everything that happened in the caverns, it scares him too. Things were much easier when all they had to worry about was an early trip to the grave.

“We'll beat this.” Hanzo says with a confident finality in his voice. “Talon and our traitor, whoever it be, will be dealt with.”

Genji smiles, if only half-heartedly, but nods in agreement. He looks as if he wants to say more but doesn't, instead he retracts himself from the counter, ready to leave only to stop again, hesitating.

“And what about the harpy?” Genji asks, giving Hanzo a sidelong glance. “And McCree?”

Hanzo quirks an eyebrow at him curiously. “What about them?”

“When this is over and done with, what then?”

“I said I'd let them go, for now, and I'm a man of my word,” Hanzo narrows his eyes at Genji. He's trying to say something without actually say it and Hanzo hates it when he does that. He huffs, “What is it?”

The other fidgets and returns to the counter, standing. His fingers dig a little into the smooth granite. “What if they come back?”

“I would hope they’d know better.” Hanzo leans back, balancing on the stool, arms folding over his chest. “Is this about taking measures should they return, or is this about McCree?”

Hanzo sees the flicker across Genji’s face, something akin to embarrassment hidden behind a short chuckle.

“If you have to ask, I think you already know the answer.”

He does, and Hanzo isn’t even sure why he asked for clarification, why this is a realization instead of just another thing he’s caught Genji doing. It started when they first met him, that week of staying in their home when Hanzo had to verbally tell him not to get attached because he knew better, he knows Genji. This isn’t new and yet the feeling in his chest is sudden, tight. It’s only natural as family, as a sibling, to feel protective. And Genji, he is so sure about McCree.

_If you don't trust him, then at least trust me._

_Because he is a good man._

Maybe that’s why it’s so weird, so different, the feeling in his chest. This isn’t just a thing for Genji, a phase. Hanzo is so used to him coming to breakfast, hair tussled and neck covered in scandalous bruises, dried and half smudged lipstick, Genji waving his hand at Hanzo before he can even get a word out. They’ll be gone before noon, I’ll take them out the back way, it’s just a little fun. Now it’s what if they come back, what if _McCree_ comes back. It’s new, and under better circumstances Hanzo would be thrilled, would tease him ceaselessly about him finally settling down. But now is not the time; that, as well as this conversation, are meant for better times.

“I will think on it.” Is what Hanzo settles for.

Probably not what Genji was looking for, but he must know this isn’t really the time for it. He nods, a half smile on his face, and returns back to the sanctity of his room.

Soon, Hanzo thinks, will be the time to talk of better, lighter things. Soon, he hopes.

 

⭐️

 

There’s still a commotion and a half at the entrance to the caverns. Most vehicles have left, but those that remain are fanciful, expensive. Shimada brand. He recognizes them easily, had ridden in them half a dozen times years and years ago, a faint memory almost. Gabriel isn’t close enough to see the outline of the Shimada emblem, but he knows it’s theirs, can tell the difference between the people milling around by who stands the tallest, who carries themselves with grace even through the ankle deep snow, who is tastefully looking down the bridge of their nose at others. It’s one man, an older gentleman, talking briskly with a couple far away from the commotion. One is an omnic, the other a short, stocky human, and both listen intently. Gabriel can hear them if he focuses, strains beyond the jumbled noise of people speaking further away. He doesn’t dare move from his place in the shadows, perched high in the trees; he’s still wounded and on a lesser note, he isn’t sure if his “deal” with the Shimada brothers extends to the rest of their people. He assumes it does, but isn’t too sure about this one, the one man, an older gentleman.

“Should they return,” he catches him say, faced away from the group of people. Minimizing lip reading, he’s done this before. “Blow it. Bury them. Make it look like an accident.”

The human flinches, the omnic only bows. The older man nods to the younger one.

“Watch them. If they do not return, I want a full report on where they’re headed. I don’t want an interruption at the warehouse.”

Slower than the omnic, the human bows in turn. They part without pleasantries as this wasn’t a pleasant meeting.

Gabriel settles further into his place in the trees. He watches the one man, an older gentleman, walk to his vehicle and leave without another word. He watches the other short, stocky human follow the omnic as they leave to rig up something meant for someone. Gabriel decides to follow them, keeping to the shadows that the late afternoon offers him. Something doesn’t feel right and at the same time it feels familiar.

No one quite forgets the look and feel of betrayal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long with these updates! I've been really out of sorts and have had zero energy to work on this the way I want to. Thank you everyone for your continued patience, it's really appreciated!
> 
> As always, feel free to hit me up on madamerioulette@tumblr ❤
> 
> ALSO CHECK OUT SOME MORE FANART THAT WAS MADE BETWEEN UPDATES !!
> 
> lindigo created some super amazing art from Chapter 7 here -- > https://lindigo.tumblr.com/post/162234115678/youre-some-kind-of-intoxicatin-im-on-a-bit-of
> 
> and an astounding rendition of spider!Widow from the last chapter here --> https://lindigo.tumblr.com/post/163283141138/a-saturday-drawpile-of-araneawidowmaker-credit
> 
> yuutayo created a beautiful piece from Chapter 8 here --> http://yuutayo.tumblr.com/post/162216999656/fanart-for-via-purifico-by-madamerioulette
> 
> I'm absolutely speechless ❤ these are gorgeous!


	11. Not A Praying Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genji’s not a praying man, but today he will and it won’t be for himself.

Gabriel waits. He’s a patient man, always has been; it’s one of the few things he hasn’t lost to Talon. It comes in handy now as he stalks a short, stocky human wearing suspicion like a second skin. He looks uncomfortable slinking around the caverns with the omnic, lining the packed dirt with some sort of explosives. Gabriel doesn’t follow them into the tunnels, he won’t be able to hide well enough, but they spend the better part of the entire day in them before the human comes out for some rest. It isn’t for long and he’s up again, this time traipsing around a pre-made perimeter. Gabriel watches him a while, curious, though it wanes after a while seeing nothing different arise hour after hour until another day passes with nothing. It’s time to act.

Gabriel does his best to keep his wits about him when he attacks, swooping down and grabbing him by the face with one of his clawed feet to muffle any screams. He doesn’t want to kill this one, despite his intent to harm others, but he may have answers, answers useful to the Shimadas. The omnic hasn't called in the check up on this one, and the human hasn't done the same. This should go unnoticed if he plays his cards right.

Taking flight, he finds refuge in the trees once more. The fidgeting body makes it awkward but he makes due. Gabriel is careful with his talons, careful not to pierce and poison, to let the scent of blood through. He's on edge, more so than usual. The ordeal with Amelie is a constant wracking pain in his chest, in his mind. It's rhythmic, tauntingly so, a steady kill, kill, _kill_ in the back of his head. And oh, but what he wouldn't give to tear into this one, struggling beneath his claws.

It's a poor substitute. He wills himself to relax. Later.

Gabriel clicks his tongue at the wet whimpering this one is doing. He doesn't have the time to wait for the Shimadas to come on their own time.

With a deep breath in, Gabriel lets out a horrifying screech into the air.

 

The town is on edge. McCree heard it the best, but the cry echoes dimly, heavy with familiarity. The brothers are up in a heartbeat from where they sit in the kitchenette, Genji flashing a look to McCree at the counter. It's midday, not the usual witching hour for the harpy.

“Get McCree out the back,” Hanzo instructs. “West end. I will calm the people and meet you there.”

Genji nods and moves without argument, grabbing his things with haste before taking McCree out the door. They stick to the alleys and side roads, significantly less crowded and better shadowed for the time of day. They reach their destination before Hanzo can get there and it leaves McCree antsy.

There's a multitude of things that could be going on; he could be under attack, he could be the one attacking, he could be trying to get their attention or leading something worse away. McCree shifts from one foot to the other in the snow, facing the direction from which the cry came.

“It's in the direction of the tunnels,” he says aloud, eyes straining to see what he knows he can't. “D’you think your people found him?”

Genji shrugs. “It's possible, but we would've gotten a call in for it,” his face sours a little. “Or maybe not, given everything that's going on.”

The answer isn't very uplifting, but the two don't have to wait much longer for Hanzo to come jogging up and they begin their trek back towards their latest hunting grounds, following McCree. He keeps a fast pace, treading through the snow with ease, leaving the Shimadas back several feet though they don't complain. It's better if McCree goes first when they're dealing with Gabriel.

McCree stops abruptly, head tilting upwards. The other two stop as well, keeping their distance. After a moment of silence, Hanzo speaks up.

“What is it?”

“He's close.”

Nothing looks out of the ordinary and it's unusual. Normally they know exactly when the harpy has been somewhere; broken and snapped trees, blood splashed across the snow, bits and pieces of the target having been strewn around. The only thing that might look somewhat out of place is a disturbance in the snow a little ways off, but that could be anything.

“Gabe?” McCree calls out, not overly loud but enough that his voice carries.

They hear a clicking sound above them; Hanzo and Genji shift back a bit as they look up. The first thing they see is a body, dead or unconscious they can't tell from here, hanging loose between thick branches. Beyond it is the shadowy, feathered silhouette of the harpy staring down at the three of them. With a haphazard kick to the body, it rolls off and falls into the snow with a muted _thump_ and a groan. Alive then. Other than that, Gabriel doesn't move from his perch, red eyes trained on the Shimadas.

“What's going on?” McCree asks, looking from the unmoving body sinking into the snow to Gabriel up in the trees.

“A traitor.” He growls, nodding at the man. His words are slow, garbled, the ceaseless gash at his throat making it difficult to speak. “I saw him speaking with another.”

“Who?” Genji pipes up, moving over to the body. He flips him over with a kick, placing his foot across his throat with slight pressure.

“An older man.” Gabriel answers. “And an omnic.”

Hanzo frowns, turning his attention to their captive on the ground. “Is he awake?”

Genji squats down to slap his cheeks. “He will be.”

“What were they speaking about?” McCree asks, stepping forward. “Did you hear them?”

Gabriel hums, leaning back on his haunches. “They hoped you would return. They were planting --” he stops abruptly, almost choking on his words. A hand comes up to hold his neck, his lips upturning in a grimace. He manages, “Explosives” before he dissolves into rumbling growls.

“That sounds promising,” says Genji. He lets go one last hard slap to the man on the ground. “Wakey wakey.”

The man blinks blearily up at Genji, Gabriel a framing silhouette behind him. He opens his mouth readying a scream but the sharp pressure at his neck increases and reminds him that his voice is better spent doing something else. He closes it, swallows hard against the heel on his throat, licks his dry lips.

“M-M-Master Genji, what a surprise.”

“Likewise.” He replies, chipper through his smile, all teeth and sharp edges. “I don't remember Hanzo asking anyone to stay back - did you Hanzo?”

“No.” He deadpans.

Genji clicks his tongue. “Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

The man wriggles beneath the other’s foot, eyes trying to focus on Genji and not Gabriel above him, or the stranger out of the corner of his eye.

“I c-can explain, of course!”

“Good, because my patience is thin today.” Genji pulls his short sword from its sheathe. “Let me help you get started, hm? You were seen talking with a man and omnic about explosives - care to fill in the blanks?”

As he speaks, tongue native to the others, McCree keeps a lookout for anything in the distance be it the omnic or another presence altogether.

“He said --”

“He is lying.” Gabriel interjects. The brothers look a little surprised but he doesn't have the breath, nor the time, to explain why they shouldn't. The commander of his own unit - of course he speaks different languages. “The older man was there, I saw him.”

“One of us doesn't speak Japanese.” McCree cuts in, raising an eyebrow at them.

“They lined explosives in the tunnels, rigged to blow if we returned,” Genji summarizes. “But this one says it was only him and the omnic, his orders were given via text from an unknown source.”

“Are you going to believe a monster’s word over mine?” He says in panicked English, borderline hysterical.

McCree growls at him, loud and deep and Genji grins wider.

“Given the guilty look plastered all over your face?” He tilts his head to one side. “Yes, I am.”

Genji centers his sword over the other’s neck, pulling his foot away.

“Do not lie to me again. I want a name.”

The man swallows again, audible in the silence.

“Daichi-sama.”

Genji blinks. That's not the name he's expecting, but it's more than they've gotten in the last couple of days. Beside them, Hanzo grunts.

“An Elder.”

“And - And Dahlia. She is back at the tunnels.” He continues, though that, if anything, is confirmation of what Oni found on Hoshi’s datapad. “That's all, I swear!”

Hanzo looks up at Gabriel for confirmation and gets a small nod in return. It feels strange, looking to the harpy for answers, but beggars can’t be choosers and Hanzo, if anything, is itching for some real answers.

“That was easy.” Genji purses his lips.

“Very.” Hanzo tuts. “It makes me wonder how easily you spilled information to our enemies.”

“No, no I would never, I wouldn't --”

“Then perhaps you should have been truthful with us the first time. Or does someone hold your tongue?” Genji asks.

This isn't the look of a man whose family is in danger, this is the look of a man who has been caught red handed without an excuse. This is the look of a man who is expendable. He fights for something, anything, but the difference between him and Hoshi is clear. He isn't loyal, he is now a liability.

“Kill him.” Hanzo says, a cool, calm finality in his voice.

The man’s scream for mercy is cut off with a firm hand from Genji, the other holding the knife moving in the slit his throat but McCree intervenes.

“No!” He steps forward with a hand out and Genji looks at him quizzically. McCree glances up at Gabriel, the other following his gaze. Quieter, he adds, “Not here.”

Gabriel has moved with silent ease to the edge of the branch he's been sitting unmoving on for the duration of their conversation. The red in his eyes is alight, hackles raised, claws digging into the bark of the tree and turning it black. He's waiting, like a shark smelling blood.

Genji puts the short sword away, pulling his attention back to McCree, nodding in understanding. The body beneath him relaxes under his hand, but it's short lived. Genji slips a quick hand beneath the other’s head and snaps his neck with practiced ease.

“Better?” He motions to the now dead body.

McCree nods, a little stunned, but that was agreeable middle ground.

“So now what?”

That's a damn good question.

“There was mention of a warehouse.” Gabriel says, moving to another set of branches. The movement, the brothers notice, is almost fluid, like fog, or an illusion. “Nothing specific.”

“I doubt this asshole knew anything about it.” Genji huffs, standing up and moving back over to Hanzo’s side. “But that doesn't leave us with much, there are many warehouses.”

“Hoshi had maps on his datapad, points of interest.” Hanzo scratches at his chin. “We could cross reference with what we got from the Talon hideout in the valley.”

“What about the omnic?” Asks McCree.

“She’s one of Oni’s, they've requested to deal with her.”

“And Daichi?” Genji practically spits the name. Another Elder, not as vocal as Yori, but he’s more a follower than a councillor.

Hanzo sighs, biting the inside of his cheek. “We need to be careful; if Hoshi is telling the truth and Talon does have people in our ranks holding families hostage, we cannot just go home and demand a hearing. If Daichi is going to be at the warehouse, that would be a safer place to approach him.”

“Or a trap.” Genji and McCree offer simultaneously.

He sighs again, shrugging. “We would also, ideally, need names. The government already has Talon on their watchlist after what we found here. If we can find the names of those involved and hard evidence, we can wrap this up in one go with minimal casualties.”

Genji chuckles a little. “Wow, it's been awhile since we played by the rules.”

“This is delicate business.”

“We can be delicate!” Genji shrugs.

McCree makes a face. “Coming from the man who just snapped that guy’s neck without blinkin’ an eye.”

That earns him a look in turn, swiveling on his heels with a purse of lips and an upturned brow. Teasingly, Genji replies, “Oh, okay mister covert operative.”

McCree can only laugh, shrugging. “You got me there.”

Gabriel watches the exchange with quiet interest, the way McCree smiles and laughs, is relaxed in the presence of two known and infamous hunters. Genji, too, how he laughs in turn and lets his gaze linger a little longer than necessary. He even spots Hanzo hiding a grin at their reverie. It's familiar, like a memory playing before him but with different people, a different time and place. The Blackwatch recreation room after a mission, a weekend off to laze around the Overwatch barracks, a night of drinks and laughter. For a minute, Gabriel feels like himself walking down the scuffed hallways of the Blackwatch mess hall, coming in to tell them to keep it down or at least invite him next time if there's going to be a party. It feels good; quiet, peaceful. The white noise ringing is far away.

“Gabe?”

McCree’s voice pulls him back to reality, back to the outcropping South of Hanamura, back to a lost McCree and two Shimadas standing over a dead body. Back to reality where his friends and family are dead and he's the sick conclusion to Talon’s freak experiments.

Gabriel looks down at McCree, quiet but attentive.

“We're heading back to the city suite. Stay as close as you can, yeah?”

He nods, unmoving from his spot. McCree looks hesitant to go but does, stepping around the body to follow Hanzo and Genji. The brothers stop a moment, the eldest first followed by the other. Gabriel can't help but flick his gaze down at the silver prosthetics Hanzo sports, sleek and practical, but fitting for someone of his stature. He knows he did that, just like he knows and equally regrets what he did to McCree. An accident, one that seemingly Hanzo has made peace with. He bows to him in quiet thanks, brushes past Genji who is still staring. That one has not made peace, though his gaze is not a fiery anger as it had been once before. It's quizzical, curious, but not as accepting when he bows, eyes never leaving Gabriel. Always questioning, that one; he would've done wonders in Blackwatch. Only when they're out of sight does Gabriel take flight, Northbound.

 

⭐️

 

The way back to the suite in the city is a pensive journey, careful. Oni stays behind to deal with Hoshi and Dahlia, their corrupt omnic, leaving Hanzo to drive, taking the back ways, not wanting to attract attention, while Genji and McCree sit in the back. They dig through Hoshi’s tablet and their own gathered information, comparing, trying to figure out the next plan of attack. They're tired of seemingly being two steps behind every time something happens. It's a new feeling for the Shimadas, not one they'd like to repeat.

“There isn't much that overlaps in Hanamura; Hoshi’s data has a lot of points of interest moreso around other areas of Japan - which is troubling…” Genji mumbles, loud enough that Hanzo might hear in the front seat. “But it helps us narrow down anything centric to our needs.”

“How hard is it gonna be navigating the city now that you're both kinda on someone’s shit list?” Asks McCree, scrolling through files.

Genji hums, shrugging noncommittally. “I’m not sure --” The car stops abruptly, jerking them forward and almost into the seats in front. He puts a hand around Hanzo’s headrest. “Christ, Hanzo; big toe.”

“Our main issue is gauging who in our circle we can still trust.” He turns his head to Genji, pointing out the heavily tinted front window. “Case and point.”

Down the narrow street, the road is nearly blocked with crowds; more specifically two black vehicles with the Shimada Clan symbol emblazoned on them parked in front of the hotel they've been staying at the past few weeks. Two men in suits stand near them, guarding and alert. There's no telling why they're there, but if neither Shimada called for backup they can only assume it isn't good.

“ _Shit_ …” Genji huffs, flopping back into his seat.

“Plan B?” McCree pipes up.

Hanzo’s grip on the wheel tightens, knuckles growing white. He hates this, the feeling of getting pushed around in _his_ city, that he can't just park right here in the middle of the road and demand an explanation. That these wolves in sheep’s clothing are probably rooting around in their family suite. Hanzo breathes in slowly, resting his head against the back of his seat. The smart thing to do, Plan B, would be to leave before they're spotted and find somewhere else. And if this had just been any old safe house, any old hideout he'd leave it at that, but Hanzo has memories of family gatherings in this suite, short lived with all four of them, then just three, now only two.

Her memorabilia is still in their parents’ room, left untouched like a snapshot. They practiced the same when Father left too.

Plan C is dangerous and reckless and, if Hanzo’s being honest, very Genji-esque going with his gut feeling instead of what's logical. Without a word Hanzo pulls around in a short K-turn and goes around the back way to the hotel, slipping through even smaller back roads into a half lit alleyway.

“McCree, stay here.”

“I can help.” He sounds a little defensive.

“What are we doing?” Asks Genji.

Hanzo turns around in his seat fully, a serious expression painting his face. “I’m not letting these people push us around and chase us away from where we belong, our home. Get your gear.”

Without another word Hanzo leaves the car, closing the door with a forced ease. Making his way around the back, he grabs his things from the trunk; a short sword and the Storm Bow. Genji lingers in the car a moment, sharing a look with McCree before following suit. He pats the other on the thigh and motions for him to follow anyway.

“This is a stealth mission.” Hanzo says, eyeing McCree.

“I can be quiet.”

“He can be quiet.” They say in unison. Genji adds, grabbing his own weapons from the trunk, “Trust me.”

Hanzo gives him one final look before closing the trunk and heading towards the backdoor. Genji and McCree follow suit, close behind. The backdoor leads to the kitchens, the smell of hot, fresh food bubbling on the stoves wafting through the double doors as soon as they’re open. The area is scarce, a few chefs litter their workstations though the majority of the staff gather around the doors to the lobby, peaking through the two round windows they offer. A few of them turn around at the sound of the Shimadas and McCree entering, but their attention wanes and goes back to whatever is happening outside. McCree has been through here before and though his face is familiar through the wanted ads still playing on the television, they know if he’s with the Shimadas they don’t need to worry too much. It’s strange, but it isn’t their business.

“What’s going on?” Hanzo asks.

Several of the kitchen hands turn around again, but only one answers, “Quarantine. Several of your people started marching through about an hour ago. No one is allowed to do their work until they’re finished doing… whatever it is they’re doing. Is this your order?”

Hanzo’s fists flex at his sides. “No. They aren’t with us. We were never here, understand?”

The one who answered, a middle-aged woman, nods, bowing slightly for good measure before turning her attention back to the quiet commotion in the lobby. Genji quietly relays the information to McCree in English as Hanzo glances out the round windows. He sees a few well-dressed men and women diligently keeping an eye out for something, someone, a couple of which are pacing back and forth in patterns. They wear the Shimada brand on the back of their suit jackets, causing Hanzo’s blood to boil. He can’t tell if they’re his or Talon’s agents; it’s frustrating. On the other side of the lobby he spots the hallway leading to the laundry room.

“I have an idea,” he says in English to Genji and McCree who are standing watch near the backdoors, grabbing their attention. To the woman who had spoken earlier he asks, “Do you have any laundry carts?”

 

Genji is beginning to wonder what exactly has gotten into Hanzo. It could be a myriad of things, stress being at the very top of that list, but he can’t find it in him to argue. It’s starting to feel like they’re getting run out of their own turf, their home, and their vacation suite is the last straw. If Genji really thinks about it, Hanzo has better memories of that place than he ever did and this probably feels like a personal slight. He knows it does for him. But for Hanzo to act on such a reaction is different. It should be alarming.

At the very least, Genji can’t say he isn’t finding some sort of amusement in all of this as they try to squeeze three grown men into a single laundry cart. It’s the only one the kitchen has right now, and they think it would look suspicious if they tried to grab a second from the laundry room. So it’s left them, moreso Hanzo, in this predicament where he isn’t sure where to sit with McCree lying flat on his back in the canvas bag. McCree looks as if he’s trying incredibly too hard not to say something smart about it as Hanzo climbs in, brows furrowed and mouth downturned as far as Genji’s ever seen it. There’s the wide expanse of McCree’s chest or the dip of his hips, and Hanzo eventually settles himself perpendicular to the man on his chest.

“Looks like I get the best seat in the house,” Genji says with a wink thrown McCree’s way.

Hanzo doesn’t miss it, nor does he the lewd eyebrow wiggling that McCree does in return.

“ _Stop_.”

Genji laughs, leaning his side against McCree’s bent legs. The amusement ends rather quickly when oily, dirty rags and towels are thrown on top to hide them. It's not ideal but it's a safety precaution should a curious eye peek into the cart while it's pushed over to the laundry room. It isn't easy; three grown men weigh the cart down rather heavily and it takes the biggest guy in the kitchen to make the trip. They don't arouse suspicion and make it across the lobby without hassle.

Once inside the laundry room, Genji pokes his head up from the towels, spotting a few helpers folding linens.

“We're clear.” He says, winking at the few who turned to look his way, putting a finger up to his lips.

From here, Hanzo’s plan is to --

“Climb up _this_?” McCree points at the steel laundry chute hanging down from the ceiling.

It's about three feet on each side, a tight fit for all of them, but they don't have much choice if they want to try and get up to the top floor.

“Only for a few floors, just until we find a suitable place to leave and we can use the elevator,” Hanzo explains, folding his sleeves up to his elbows. “The chute doesn't go to our suite.”

“Can't imagine how threatening we'd be funneling outta the laundry chute anyway.”

Genji chuckles, folding his own sleeves up. “Would you believe it if I told you this wasn't the weirdest thing we have done?”

“Hell, this isn't even the weirdest thing _I've_ done.”

“You can swap stories later,” Hanzo butts in from the mouth of the chute. “Let's go.”

Hanzo goes first, followed by Genji, leaving McCree to bring up the rear. It's tight and uncomfortable, but the metal interior is at least cool to the touch, a slight relief to the heat and sweat building. They shimmy up several floors, quiet save for the minute metallic _tink_ of the Shimadas’ silver on their boots against the chute and the little jingle of McCree’s spurs. If Genji were a betting man, and he is from time to time, he'd have bet those cowboy boots of his weren't suitable for much aside from looking good, but there seems to be some traction keeping McCree from slipping as they make their way upward. He wonders if McCree’s had those since his Blackwatch days, if Gabriel let him run missions dressed in his spurs and serape and hat. The hat, he remembers, had been in many of the videos he'd seen. Newer, cleaner, but it's the same old hat.

They go about ten floors up before the chute becomes unbearable and Hanzo starts wiggling his way out. It isn't graceful, and Genji would even go so far to say it isn't all that dignified either, but with a lot of finagling and an accidental foot on Genji’s face as leverage Hanzo makes it out of the chute. The other two wait a moment inside for the sound of struggle, fighting… nothing.

Hanzo pokes his head back in. “It’s clear, come on.”

Genji wriggles his way up next, slipping only once to a misstep, followed by McCree who has a bit of a difficult time coaxing his way out.

“The elevator isn’t working.” Hanzo says with a frown. He turns, mouth open to say more on the situation but stops short when he sees Genji trying to pull McCree from the laundry chute. “Are… are you stuck?”

McCree grumbles something akin to a mildly annoyed _yeah_ and shakes a hand free from Genji’s grasp. “This thing ain’t meant for people….”

He takes a moment to resituate himself inside the slanted chute, squaring his shoulders with the top of it. With his hands curled over the edge he pushes up. Genji and Hanzo watch quietly, and only when the youngest opens his mouth to ask _what are you doing?_ does the wall around the opening whine and crack, the metal of the chute bending with it. It's a few extra inches wider, nothing fancy, but it's enough for McCree to shimmy out.

“I’ll… pay for that,” he offers, dusting himself off.

“It's fine,” Hanzo sighs, turning back to the elevator. Under his breath he mutters, native language quick on his tongue, “This is why I told him to stay in the car.”

“You never said we'd be crawling up the laundry chute!” Genji rebuttals.

“It's _fine_.” He repeats, English again, clicking his tongue. “We need to find a way up, the elevator is not responding.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Quarantine…” says Genji, quiet at first before the answer hits him. He snaps his fingers, “We don't quarantine buildings unless there's a monster around.”

“There is no…” Hanzo starts before he remembers _McCree_ and the same thought process follows. “Someone sold us out.”

“Or we could have been followed, like I was the night of the full moon.”

“Either way, it still leaves us with a problem,” the other motions to the doors of the elevator. “The laundry chute --”

“We ain't goin’ back in there.” McCree interrupts.

“It does not lead to the twenty-first floor anyway.” Hanzo finishes. “The elevator is the only way in.”

“Unless someone is desperate enough to scale a twenty-one floor building to get to us,” Genji chuckles, but the grin dies on his lips when he sees Hanzo looking as if he's giving the idea serious thought. “I was joking.”

It's Hanzo’s turn to grin, the small thing that it is though genuine. “You are always telling me to live a little.”

Genji blinks. “Yeah, like… parties or something, not scaling buildings.” Hanzo shrugs at that. “Brother, now is _not_ the time to be exploring the life of an adrenaline junkie.”

There's a muffled metal _bang_ from the elevator that has them both jumping, conversation forgotten. McCree is standing there, serape covering a rather sizable dent on one door, fist-shaped. His one flesh hand is now furry up to his elbow, thicker, claws flexing from their sheaths. He wedges it between the dent at the crease, using the free area to forcefully pull the doors open.

“I got an idea. And it doesn't involve cramped spaces that smell like dirty laundry or adrenaline chasin’.”

McCree gets the doors open enough for the three of them to slide in easily, and he peaks his head over the edge to see the elevator ten floors down. Above them is eleven more, the emergency ladder climbing all the way up until the twentieth floor.

“Okay. Maybe a little bit of adrenaline.”

Genji pokes his head from underneath him, humming as he looks the elevator shaft up and down.

“It's not a bad idea.”

“It's the only good one,” Hanzo says, nudging Genji teasingly. "Good job, McCree.”

The climb is simple enough with the help of the ladder. The sound of muffled going ons from floors below and above, metal creaking, wires settling; it all echoes in the long, vertical passage making it just the slightest bit unsettling. The _don’t look down_ rule is unsaid, but is very much in play. It's when they get to floor twenty that they start to get creative. McCree, one metal arm and one wolf arm, begins scaling up to the doors to get them open rather easily, and Genji can't help but wonder if this isn't the first time he's climbed through an elevator shaft before. He and Hanzo are a little more cautious and slow; while avid climbers there's been the promise of soft grass below to catch them, snow maybe, their father’s arms. Not to mention they've never made climbing twenty-one floors up a building much of a habit.

Genji goes first this time, grabbing onto the lips of metal structures, piping, anything sturdy that he can hoist himself up on, leaving a well defined path for Hanzo. They're quiet as they climb the last floor up, not wanting to alert anyone should they be in their suite. It won't matter much once McCree starts forcing the elevator doors open, but at least they'll have the element of surprise as they climb precariously upwards.

McCree stations himself at the center of the doors, one hand holding a bunched piece of his serape near the crease, while each Shimada settles at either side of him. They're balanced on the lip of the doors, not the most spacious thing in the world, but they don't have much choice in where they stand. Hanzo nods to him, signaling he's ready, and Genji mirrors him. With only a smidge of hesitation, McCree lifts his wolfish hand and slams it against the one side of the door, creating a sizable dent. He wastes no time, digging his fingers into the space and pulling back one handed, his metal hand keeping him balanced and steady.

Bullets begin to fly almost immediately, despite the space between the doors not nearly wide enough to fit anything short of a child through. Hanzo readies his bow, mounting a sonar arrow as he inches near the opening. When there's a lull in the shooting, he snaps his body around to fire blindly in the direction the sounds were coming from, sidling back around and against the elevator door.

“How many?” Asks Genji.

“Three, as far as I can see. One in the kitchen, two in the bedrooms; yours and one guest.”

He frowns, eyeing the gun in McCree’s holster. “Are we aiming to maim or kill?”

“Ideally I would like one alive for questioning.”

“Want a second opinion on our last interrogation?” Genji can't, or rather won't hide the brisk tone in his voice when he says it, but doesn't bother to look up at Hanzo to meet the full force of his steely gaze. His attention is on the gun.

McCree’s right handed as far as he knows, maybe both if he had to hazard a stretching guess, but both of his hands are a little preoccupied at the moment. Slipping the heavy weapon from its holster, Genji shimmies himself between the man and the door, trying to find a good view of the situation.

“I don't believe that's yours, sugar.”

“You aren't using it, cowboy.”

Gun training had been basic for both of them. Their father stressed honor, both for the clan and those they hunted. Though guns were more popular to use hunting certain creatures, their father found that way of approaching a hunt more for sport like duck hunting and the like. The Shimada Clan didn't hunt for sport, it was to keep the peace and safety of Hanamura, and later on Japan with the help of others. It wasn't to be treated like a game, just a duty. Their gun training had been more for situations like these, when their enemies couldn't be persuaded to join their conglomerate. Or, in this case, a blossoming mutiny.

Revolvers held strangely in his hand, very different from the usual pistols they carried in their armoury. It was heavy, imbalanced almost, and _old_ . This particular model, despite the obvious custom touches, was _damn_ old. He'd make due, and Genji settled himself against the door, readying to fire at the next person who poked their head out.

“Don't…” McCree huffs, his clawed hand craning around to nudge Genji’s position. “Shoot it like that and you're gonna punch yourself in the eye.”

He urges Genji’s arm down so the gun isn't smack dab in front of his face.

In afterthought he asks, “How's your aim?”

“Average.” There's disdain when he says it.

McCree lifts the arm back up and instructs, “Two hands, one around the grip and one under at the butt. Let the elbows bend a little.”

His arm wraps around Genji’s waist to help him balance, his prosthetic digging digit-sized dents into the overhead piece of metal he's holding on to. Genji repositions himself to the new hold, waits out the rain of bullets funneling through the small opening. When they peeter off, he makes his move, catching the eyes of the assailant in the kitchen. They fire their weapons, Peacekeeper causing a cacophonous sound in the elevator shaft, echoing loudly as it hits the target in the side of the neck, a splash of blood painting the wall they’d been using for cover. The enemy bullets strafes wide, ricocheting off the door; a stray one nearly misses Genji as McCree pulls him back behind the door, cutting across his forehead just above his right brow. It doesn’t deter the wide grin on Genji’s face as he wipes a bit of the pooling blood before it hits his eye.

“Got one!”

“Are you alright?” Hanzo asks, eyeing the cut but Genji waves him away with a nonchalant blood stained hand. “Hmph.”

He knocks another sonar arrow and waits before firing quickly, blindly towards their rooms. The two assailants are still there and Hanzo knocks a different arrow, the tip disjointed into four separate floating pieces. He watches the red outlines carefully through the walls, calculating, planning. One of them looks ready to make a run for it, legs shuffling, shoulders hunched. They jerk forward and Hanzo rounds the corner again, shoots up at the ceiling. The shaft of the arrow just misses the obnoxious chandelier and leaves a mark a few inches past it in the ceiling before exploding into several smaller pieces. One hits the running man in the head from above, slicing through to his jaw and he falls over, skidding on the hardwood. A few other pieces scatter and richotte, leaving marks into the walls, lodging themselves into furniture. One piece bounces from the floor and back up at a particular angle towards the guest room. It hits the third assailant in the stomach, causing them to drop their gun and to their knees, arms curling around the wound.

Hanzo looks rather pleased with himself, grinning like a cat who ate the canary.

“Got two.”

“Show off….” Genji mutters as McCree whistles above him, impressed.

McCree forces the elevators open further, enough that they can get through easily. Hanzo has another arrow knocked as soon as he's through, in case a few more agents are hidden away. He fires another sonar at the space between his room and his parents’; nothing. Genji flanks him, Peacekeeper still clutched in both hands, checking corners. McCree sniffs the air after he's through the elevator doors, and doesn't smell anyone else.

“We're clear. Was just these three,” he announces, poking the agent Genji shot with his foot. “That really was a nice shot.”

Genji spares a moment to preen, grinning widely at the other before turning his attention back to the bleeding man on the floor. Hanzo kicks his gun away, letting it skid far into the living room, and trains his bow on him.

“Start talking.” He demands, voice low and even. “Now.”

McCree starts digging through the dead bodies as the others have their bloody staring contest and finds that beneath the Shimada uniform is their very own Talon vest, symbol emblazoned on it. He makes swift work of their ear pieces, crushing them in his paw, digs further to see if he can't find anything else of interest.

Behind him there's the sound of a foot connecting with the square of someone’s chest; Genji’s with their new friend. The Talon agent recoils onto his back, groaning, hands still applying pressure as best he can onto the wound.

“We asked a simple question,” he says, voice deceptively friendly as he presses his foot into the wound. “What are you doing here?”

There’s a short, wet laugh that wheezes between his clenched, bloody teeth as he rolls his eyes up at Genji then down and past him at the back of McCree rifling through his coworkers’ things. Feeling eyes on him, he turns enough to look over his shoulder, focusing on the man bleeding out on the ground.

“Yeah?” He says with a sharp half-grin. “Can I help you?”

“ _Him_ .” The agent chuckles, flopping his head down onto the floor with a muted _thump_. “And his loyal Overwatch friends. They’re a problem.”

“Someone’s feeding you the wrong information, my friend,” McCree clicks his tongue. “I’m solo.”

The man continues to chuckle weakly, wheezing when Genji presses further onto his wound.

“Want us to say hi to _Angie_ for you?” He laughs, practically chokes when Genji looks to put his whole weight on the wound. “How about _Lena_?”

Something flickers behind McCree’s eyes, Genji can't quite tell what and doesn't have the time. He stalks forward between Hanzo and Genji, hovering over the agent, and brushes Genji’s foot away. With his prosthetic hand he grabs the man by the collar none too gently and hoists him up, with his still half-shifted hand he grows the claws out a little longer and rests them against his neck.

“Here’s the deal pardner; we ask the questions, you give the answers, I don't turn you.” There smell of fear fills the room quick, McCree licks his lips. “Just one cut and you’ll be singin’ to the moon. Or maybe Talon’ll lock you up in a pretty little cage and experiment on you ‘til you can't remember your own name. That sound fun?”

Hanzo and Genji both know it's a bluff, for multiple reasons. The biggest being McCree is lying; he can't turn him, not now. That's a full moon special. And it takes a bite, not a cut, but by the look on the agent’s face they can tell he doesn't know any better, and they aren't about to speak up. Instead they step back and let McCree’s presence fill their enemy’s vision.

“What were you lookin’ for in the Shimada’s suite?”

There's a hair’s breath of hesitation before the agent swallows audibly, answering, “You. Information. You’ve been nipping at our heels for years, mutt. Your work with the Shimadas left you nice and open, staying in one place for so long. And since the Shimadas are Talon’s new favorite target, it was like killing two birds with one stone.”

McCree shakes him, tapping a long claw precariously under the agent’s chin. “You ain’t really in the position to be bragging.”

The agent fidgets in his hold, sporting a nervous little grin. “Maybe a bit - we already know where two of your friends are hiding out, and we’ll know the rest soon enough. It’s just a matter of time. Nothing and no one will stand in our way.”

The hand around his collar tightens, the metal joints scraping against each other. When McCree speaks, his voice is a little tight. “There’s been talk of a warehouse. What’s that about?”

“Warehouses?” The agent licks his lips. “Ah… there’s quite a few of ours scattered across Japan.”

“Let’s start with the ones in Hanamura then.”

“There’s one… to the West. They’re pointless structures --”

“Not pointless enough to not be spoken about,” McCree interjects, impatient and looking over his shoulder at the brothers. “Anything else?”

Genji shakes his head and, after a moment of thought, so does Hanzo. McCree eyes the agent, a smug smirk curling onto his lips as he wraps his free hand around the man’s throat and squeezes. He begins to struggle, hands flying up to try and pry the vice grip McCree has on his uniform, around his neck, letting out a gargled, choked yelp. It’s quick as the pressure tightens, not to choke but to break; first the windpipe followed by the telltale _crack_ of the neck joints snapping. The body goes limp and McCree turns to the doorway leading out of Genji’s room to toss him haphazardly next to his dead comrade on the floor.

“So we go West?” Genji asks, keeping a quiet eye on McCree. He’s angry but there isn’t anyone left to take it out on.

“Presumably. Get your things together, we need to leave quickly before the agents downstairs figure out we’re here,” instructs Hanzo, stepping around the pile of bodies to go to his room.

Genji watches him go until he disappears behind his door before putting his attention back on McCree who hasn’t moved. He reaches out for his arm, still half transformed and the fur there is soft, the skin beneath warm. McCree flinches a little out of surprise and catches Genji out of the corner of his eyes.

“You okay?”

There’s that look again from before, a quick flicker behind his eyes, a flash of silver. He’s worried, on edge. The agent named names -- Angie, Lena -- and he remembers them from the last video Genji saw. McCree was sending it to Angie about seeing Gabriel, he didn’t want her to tell Lena. He doesn’t know if he ever saw them in the vids, but he thinks Angie might be short for Angela, a Dr. Angela Zeigler having signed off on most of his medical records.

“M’fine.” He rolls his shoulders back and winces a little. “Just a little ache at the joint.” McCree raises his prosthetic, flexes the metal human fingers and bends the arm back and forth a few times. “Forgot I can’t shift this arm anymore, think I might’ve stretched the prosthetic a bit at the joint.”

“Maybe when this is all done we can rework it? Make it so it can shift with you,” Genji offers with a small smile. He holds onto his paw, flipping it over and pressing his thumbs into the pads. “I think we could manage that now that you’re not a secret.”

“I was thinking about that too -- ah, that tickles,” McCree chuckles, twisting his hand a little in Genji’s grip.

He doesn’t let up, only hums and presses his thumbs elsewhere, tracing shapes. “We’ll look into it.”

“Speakin’ of, how um… how much longer you think this’ll take?”

Genji looks up from his paw. “What?”

McCree shifts a little where he stands, searching for the rights words. “You said I could leave once Talon was found in Japan and I, uh… think that’s pretty evident.” He motions to the dead bodies outside the door. “I don’t mean to rush it, I just….”

He furrows his brows, a small growl stuck in the back of his throat. Genji understands and starts to rub soothing circles onto his paw pads.

“Your friends?” He offers. “Lena and Angie - you’re worried about them.”

“I mean it ain’t like they can’t take care of themselves, they’ve both got military training but I… it’s my fault if they find them and they ain’t even a part of this.” McCree flexes his hand, the claws growing, then shrinking when he remembers Genji’s hands in his. “I can’t let them get caught up in my bullshit.”

There’s something weird and misplaced bubbling in Genji’s throat that he swallows down immediately. Envy, maybe, in his forgetfulness that McCree has friends outside of this, pieces of a family he wants to keep safe. It’s not his place to be jealous of all things; he’s the outsider and even still, Genji wants a little piece of McCree for himself.

“I will speak with Hanzo after the business with this warehouse is finished,” says Genji, looking back down at their hands. “What we need now is solid evidence to show our government, but you have done what we asked. I’ll even see if we can spare one of our transports to take you where you need to go. It’s the least we can do.”

They’re quiet a moment before McCree squeezes his paw again, this time gently and with care for Genji’s hands still kneading into his pads. He pulls the other closer, enough to press his lips gently to the corner of Genji’s mouth in a small kiss. He can feel them upturn into a smile and when McCree goes to pull away, Genji chases him for another quick kiss. McCree chuckles and indulges, murmurs a thank you against his cheek that is as sincere as it is full of worry.

“I wish we could do more,” Genji says.

“No, no that’s enough,” he smiles weakly, nudging his forehead against the other’s. “It’s enough, thank you. And when this is all dealt with, I’ll come back.”

“Well, hopefully by then Hanzo and I will have this straightened out.” Genji sighs, frowning. He’s tired, looks it, and is ready for this ordeal to be over with. “You won’t have to come back to help us.”

“I meant coming back for you.”

Genji is, despite himself, surprised but doesn’t hold back his beaming wide grin when he looks up at McCree.

“Promise?”

“Of course.”

It’s something nice to look forward to once everything is said and done, something explicitly theirs.

They pack their things and make ready to leave as soon as possible. The guest room McCree was staying in is trashed; the bed is rumpled, the closet ransacked with bits of clothing and other miscellaneous things scattered across the floor. His duffel bag, as well, has been rifled through. The datapad and tablet he’d been using to communicate with Angela and store information in are both gone. He calms himself with the positive thought that soon he’ll be on his way to England with the help of the Shimadas and he’ll be able to put out the fire he inadvertently started.

Genji only takes a few extra weapons he has secured beneath his mattress and to the ceiling of his closet. When he’s finished, he peeks into Hanzo’s room to check up on him and finds nothing. There’s rustling from the room next door, their parents’ room, and Genji toes the door open quietly to see his brother sitting in the middle of the room, legs tucked beneath him. He’s praying or meditating or both; regardless Genji keeps quiet and only watches. The room is untouched and for that he feels relief.

“Are you ready?” Hanzo asks after a long while, not moving from his spot just yet.

“Mhm, we both are but take your time,” says Genji, leaning against the doorframe.

He scoffs quietly, picking himself up off the floor. “Unfortunately time is a luxury we do not have.”

“Did they touch anything?”

Hanzo shakes his head, readjusting the bow on his harness. He doesn’t quite look up at Genji yet and when he does he looks embarrassed.

“I don’t know why I thought they would I just…” he takes a breath in and holds it for a second or two. “I apologize for my hasty decision of coming here, I was afraid they might have… I’m just so tired of running.”

“I am too,” Genji says, walking over to place a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“This is _our_ home,” Hanzo adds, anger coating his words. “I’m tired of being pushed from it.”

“I know,” the other nods, squeezing his shoulder. “Soon, brother, we’ll take it all back.”

Hanzo smiles, faint as it is, but Genji sees it for what it is; a small, silent thanks that he isn’t dealing with this alone. Genji smiles back in an answer; as long as he’s around Hanzo will never have to.

 

⭐️

 

They head West, Hanzo at the head of the car once more driving down backroads until they aren’t even roads anymore but dirt paths nearly hidden by snow, Genji behind him in the backseat with his nose buried in a tablet double checking information, and McCree keeps himself busy staring at the heavily tinted window watching the scenery blow by. West, he thinks, where Genji’s story took place at the mountain range that rises over the horizon as they draw nearer. McCree finds himself thinking about it a lot the last few days in their down time; the way Genji and Hanzo are inexplicably human but the thing, that glowing translucent dragon that crawled out of Genji’s back like some kind of phantasm, wrapping around his sword eyes alight and -- he doesn’t think about what happens next, but McCree can’t get it out of his head. His _wolf_ won’t let him get it out of his head. Like a warm static beneath his skin he’d reacted when the energy released as he would any other supernatural creature. McCree thinks about the story as they pass a town in the distance and imagines how it looks in the spring and summer, colorful linens folded over lines between houses fluttering in the wind, catching the eye of a dragon who fancies the simpler, finer things humans have to offer. Festivals at night, fireworks popping and dazzling the sky in lights, loud enough, high enough that it might peak a dragon’s interest. A beautiful ivory serpent winding shapes into the sky on a clear day, graceful and radiant. Today the sky is grey, a puffy mess of dull clouds threatening yet another blanket of snow, covering the very top of the mountain, and the town looks vacant, perhaps abandoned. They aren’t coming here to reminisce, but it helps the car ride go a little quicker as quiet and stiff as it is.

No one mentions how the air in the car feels a little different. Not tense, but different. Something that causes little goosebumps up McCree’s arm only to be soothed with something warm.

They park several yards away from the base of the mountain, allowing the car to hide between the trees and wilted shrubbery. It would be foolish for them to think this wouldn’t be another hidden facility like the last, even moreso not to go in with caution and silence; every bit of this smells like a trap but their choices are limited. There’s always a chance this place could yield something of a game changer.

Gathering their necessities the three men make their slow approach towards the base of the mountain. The terrain changes from soft, packed dirt and snow to harsh stone, slippery with ice.

“Maybe we should have asked how to get in…” Genji huffs, checking the coordinates on a small tablet. “We are here, but I don’t see anything.”

“Underground maybe?” Hanzo offers.

McCree sniffs the air, squats down and sniffs again. Nothing smells particularly off, unlike their time in the South. “When I’d found that lil hidden place in the valley, I had to trail a couple agents to find it. This place though, I don’t think it’s been disturbed in a while. Ain’t any fresh tracks coming up from the road we were just on, and unless the last snowfall was a foot high I don’t smell a thing.”

“There has to be something…” Hanzo trails off and carefully makes his way closer to the mountain. He raps his knuckles on different rock formations, listening for any signs.

McCree digs around in the snow a bit with his metal hand and finds dirt rather quickly. He doesn’t want to dismiss this area of entry too quickly, but there aren’t any signs pointing to it. Looking to Genji, he finds him staring up, up at the great slope of the mountain and at the clouds that hide the peak. It’s a moment, he thinks, is to himself to indulge in a bedtime story close to him. McCree lets him be until he sees him blink away and back down to the tablet, biting his lip and finding his concentration on the matter at hand once more.

“Hey Genji?” He asks, standing back up to full height with a small huff. “What about that town we passed -- do people still live there?”

“No, no one has lived there for decades.”

“You think that might be a place to look?”

Genji looks to Hanzo whose attention is brought back to the other two with the spoken suggestion.

“You two go, I will stay here and radio in if I find anything that looks suspicious.” Genji looks ready to protest, but the other holds up a hand. “We don’t have time to argue. Go.”

With hesitation in his steps Genji leaves, leading McCree towards the town a ways off, but stops short several steps in their new direction. Turning to Hanzo, he tilts his head to one side questioningly as he says something to him in Japanese. The other takes a moment to respond, his right hand coming up to rub his left arm through his uniform. He answers, short and unsure, and Genji nods, reaching up to scratch his neck as he turns back to their original destination and leaves without another word.

“You okay?” McCree asks once they’re out of earshot of Hanzo.

“Like right now or in general?”

“I can probably guess in general,” he chuckles, rubbing his own neck. Uneasy, nervous, nauseous, or maybe he’s just projecting onto Genji the way he feels right now. “I meant now, you sounded unsure when you were speakin’ with Hanzo just now.”

The other glances over at the mountain, still looming over them regardless of the distance they’ve put between it and them. The grip on his tablet tightens a little, the fingerless gloves pulling tight.

“Do you… feel it?” Asks Genji, giving McCree a hard look. “I don’t know how to explain it well in English. Something in the air, like… charged? No….”

“I feel something from you and Hanzo. An energy, like when you two released your dragons,” McCree tries to fill in the blanks. “I felt it kinda grow in the car, it’s a little less stifling out here, but it’s weird. It’s sharp but not all in the same wave.”

Genji nods, but is quiet a moment, turning his head to stare at the town growing in the distance. “I… don’t like this. I don’t like that the coordinates, this warehouse, whatever it is, I don’t like that it’s all here.”

McCree doesn’t know what to say, if there’s anything even to say. He keeps quiet, but close, serape brushing Genji’s shoulder as they walk.

“I’m sorry,” he shakes his head, rolls his shoulders back. “Forget it, we need to focus on the mission.”

“Don’t be sorry, it’s fine.” McCree puts a hand on Genji’s shoulder, squeezing gently. A warmth moves across the back of his hand, tickling its way up his arm. “You’ve got every right to feel uncomfortable about this.”

Genji nods, but doesn’t bring it up again.

The town is deserted, almost forgotten with little to no upkeep. McCree can imagine what it used to be, bustling with people, the smell of freshly cooked meals wafting from the open windows, children giggling and running around a now empty space with remains of what he thinks might have been a small fountain. Stone market stalls have crumbled, roofs caved in from harsh weather, walls of establishments and homes are cracked but not irreparable. McCree wonders why this place turned into a ghost town, but if Talon has anything to do with it… he doesn’t think about it, nor does he speak up. Genji’s already on edge, tablet tucked away into his pouch and instead sporting his short sword. McCree opts for a knife instead of his gun, loud as it is, an old thing from his Blackwatch days but useful nonetheless. He doesn’t hear anyone, not anything out of the ordinary, but he does smell something, a scent of human about a day or two old.

“Here,” Genji motions to a trail of old snow, deep but valleyed, as if someone has slogged through. It isn’t recent, there aren’t any real tracks, but the disturbance is enough to warrant attention. “Let’s follow it for now.”

The trail goes back far beyond the outer perimeter of the town itself and flows inward towards the center, in between houses and small remains of gardens, and stops at the entrance of a building not much different from the others; old and dulled. Forgotten, perhaps, if it weren’t for the wet trail of melted snow leading in from the entrance, the faded wet outline of boots leaving imprints in the wood flooring. They aren’t fresh, but it’s recent enough that the footprints are still there. McCree smells the air, the scent of damp, rotten wood filling the air mixing unnaturally with the fresh air outside, but that’s all. The scent of whoever belonged to these boot prints is long gone.

Genji enters the building first, McCree bringing up the rear, weapons at the ready. The establishment isn’t particularly large, a storefront perhaps at one point with a broken counter near the back, frayed empty woven baskets that looked to have been gnawed on by a passing animal. There’s a small room in the back with no door; McCree peeks inside and finds nothing but a few empty crates that were left behind. Suspicious, he looks down at the floorboards and taps his heel on a few, listening to the dull _thumps_ it gives off.

“What are you doing?” Genji whispers, loud enough for the other to hear. He’s got his head half out of a broken window, searching for any more trails to follow.

“Lookin’ for any underground passageways. The coordinates lead to the mountain, but what if what we’re lookin’ for is underneath it?”

“Oh….” He looks down at the boards beneath his boots. Unbuckling his sheath, Genji uses it to tap on the wood, hard enough to find a difference in sound should there be anything hidden beneath. “Good thinking.”

They spend the next few minutes hitting the floor, a sight for anyone watching they’re sure, but find nothing out of the ordinary. Eventually McCree begins to move the broken counter as well as a few sets of crates out of the way while Genji taps away at the floorboards.

“Eugh, there is some rotted wood here,” he scrunches his nose, lifting his face mask up to his nose as the intrusive smell makes its way to him. He pokes the soft wood once with the sheath of his sword lightly before continuing forward, listening to telltale signs. “I don’t know McCree, the tracks might have been an animal, or just a tra --”

The floor beneath him creaks and groans loudly, the only warning before the rotten wood breaks under Genji’s weight. He lets out a surprised yell, arms outstretched to catch himself on the edge. McCree is there in a flash, crates forgotten as he dashes to the side of the now wide, uneven hole decorating the floor of this shop.

“Are you okay?”

Genji huffs, dangling a few feet above a hollow, dirt tunnel. “Peachy. I think I might have found our entrance.”

McCree peers over to look further down. There isn’t much light to illuminate it, but it’s enough to see that it isn’t just a hole underneath some creaky floorboards. He claps his hands together a few times, looking down at Genji with an amused little smirk.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the a- _paws_ ,” Genji deadpans, the edges of his mouth tilting upwards a little at the now unamused purse of lips on McCree’s face. “You deserved that bad pun, help me up.”

He does, pulling Genji up from the hole, and sticks his face in it once its free. Sure enough, it’s nothing but a long dark path leading in the same direction as the mountain. It smells earthy, fresh, but more importantly it smells like a human has passed recently. Fainter still, there’s the scent of rusty metal, perhaps further down.

“Should get Hanzo down here,” McCree suggests, lifting his head out of the hole only to slip his lower half in. “I’ll check it out a little further down while he gets here.”

“Wait,” Genji digs around in the small pack his tablet is tucked away in and procures a small earpiece. He crouches to the edge, mindful of the noises the boards make, and hands it over. “Use this.”

McCree looks it over a second before placing it in his ear comfortable, beaming up at Genji. “Thanks, sugar. I’ll be back.”

“Be careful.” He says as he watches the other disappear into the shadows of the tunnel. Genji waits a while before radioing Hanzo, one hand coming up to press into his earpiece, another coming up to rub at the heat crawling up his neck. “Hanzo?”

“I am here.” The response takes a moment, and he sounds of out breath. “Did you find something?”

“Yeah, a way in. Are you alright?”

“Mhm, just doing a bit of light climbing. I found some vents leading out from the mountain, but I’m unsure as to how far they go or what we’d have to contest with once we meet the end.”

“I’d rather not repel down into a vat of acid, no,” Genji chuckles a little. “McCree went up ahead a little to scout, he has a spare radio on him.”

“Give me a moment, I will rendezvous as soon as I can,” Hanzo says, still sounding breathless.

“Brother… are you sure you’re okay?”

He hesitates a moment, the line silent until he answers stiffly, “My arm hurts a bit, but I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“ _Genji_.” Hanzo sighs, a finality in his voice. He doesn’t want to talk about it over the radio. Not with McCree listening. “I’m fine. I’ll see you momentarily.”

The radio goes dead as Genji doesn’t push the subject, and waits for his brother to return. There’s a quick shadow that flits across the ground outside of the building that catches Genji’s eye, followed by a low shriek. Above, the harpy circles around the area, ever vigilant and watchful.

 

A warehouse underneath a mountain that holds significance to the Shimadas is a little beyond coincidental for McCree’s liking. Talon is tricky like that, but mixing in a few black sheep from the Shimada Clan who have different agendas -- that’s dangerous. The tunnel goes at a subtle enough slope, changing from packed, well treaded upon dirt to old, unkept metal. Busted lights line the ceiling and not much else for a good long trek until the tunnel opens up to a larger, darker room that takes McCree a few seconds to adjust to. The ceiling is carved into the mountain, wires, frayed and whole, loop around it like boring decorations leading to broken light fixture to broken light fixture. The walls are reinforced metal much like the floor, though uneven and uncared for. Lining the walls are out of date computers and machines that are covered in a thick layer of dust and grime, some have busted screens that don’t look accidental. Thick, braided cords snake around the floor from one machine to the next, some leading straight into the walls and others forgotten about without an end. What sends McCree’s hair on end are the rows and rows of cages littered in the center. Many are torn apart and even that’s understating things. Mangled metal twisted and snapped like twigs. As he gets closer he notices not all are the same material; some are ever familiar silver, others iron, and a few are something different and indiscernible altogether. Those cages remain whole for the most part, bolted to the floor as they are, whereas those made of silver and iron are nothing more than scrap heaps. Deep scratches marr the floor around the broken cages, some recognizable, some not.

Moving forward, McCree notices ventilation shafts in the ceiling. A few are open, many are rusted shut, but one looks like it was forced open, the rim bent and pulled. He wonders if Amélie was kept here, if one of these broken cages was hers, if the busted vent was her escape and Talon just let her go to further the experiment. McCree tightens his grip around the knife he’s holding and moves on. He doesn’t want to dwell on that.

Even further into the warehouse McCree finds a hatch that’s locked up tight, bolted shut and starting to rust. McCree sheathes the knife and bends down, giving it a better looksee. He gives the handle to it a good tug with his right hand and it budges, but only slightly. He tugs it again, this time prying it up just enough to slip his metal fingers in to help pull the hatch off its hinges. It does, not without effort, and the metal creaks and groans under his ministrations before popping off. Setting the lid down elsewhere, McCree peers into the new passage, this one darker than the whole of the warehouse, and decides he’s had enough of exploring this place by himself.

“Genji?” McCree calls into the radio. He gets static in return, so he tries again. “Genji, Hanzo, can ya’ll hear me?”

Static again and he sighs, dissatisfied. Interference, he presumes, and he’s not sure why he expected anything less from Talon. Slowly, carefully, listening out for anyone that might not be who he’s looking for, McCree makes his way back to the tunnel in hopes of catching their frequency. It isn’t long before he does, coupled with the far off footsteps echoing down the path.

“We’re here, what’s wrong?” Genji answers.

“Was trying to reach you two earlier but the radio signal down here is busted.”

“Of course it is…” says Hanzo, the exasperated eyeroll almost audible. “Did you find anything?”

“The short answer is yes. A lot.” McCree turns back to the entrance a little ways back, uncomfortable leaving his back turned away. “Ya’ll are gonna want to see this for yourselves.”

The footsteps quicken and before long  he catches the brothers’ shadowy outline and flashlights coming down the tunnel. McCree leads them the rest of the way, showing them the cages, the broken vent, and the hatch.

“It was locked up tight when I found it, but I don’t hear anything down there so I don’t think it was to keep anything alive trapped.”

“Given the state of this place, I would be surprised if anything could survive for that long,” Hanzo adds, crouching at the edge of the hatch. “It doesn’t smell like anything died down there either.”

“Maybe it’s more storage,” offers Genji, peering over his brother’s shoulder. “Do we need to pull straws to see who goes down?”

“No need, I will,” McCree says, taking out his revolver. “I don’t need a flashlight, and if there’s anything down there I wanna take by surprise I’ll have an easier time.”

Hanzo makes a little noise at that but doesn’t argue and pulls himself up without a word.

“Try to radio us if you find anything or get into trouble. There’s no guarantee it will work but,” Genji shrugs and McCree nods in agreement.

“Same to you two. Someone or something’s been down here recently. Be careful.”

“You too.” McCree winks to Genji before hopping down the ladder.

It isn’t a long way down by any means, and once he reaches the bottom he looks up at the opening of the hatch, Genji and Hanzo’s face staring down at him. He gives them a thumbs up before turning around to stare down another long, narrow corridor. Carefully, slowly McCree makes his way down, mindful of any telltale sounds of traps clicking beneath his boots. The smell down here is stale, old, but nothing malicious, human nor monster. It’s a good thing, he supposes, if this hatch leads to nothing, but no one bolts a locked lid shut for extra measure to keep in air. The hallway remains uneventful as McCree makes it to a bend, with stairs leading further down.

At the bottom is another open room, smaller than the one above with lower ceilings and relatively cleaner floors. It looks like a medical lab if McCree had to take a guess, something similar if not a little darker than what Angela had at Overwatch. There are examination tables pushed against the wall to make room in the center, all of them sporting that same unknown metal from before molded into restraints. In the far corner is a makeshift office, hidden away behind dingy, faded curtains. McCree pulls them away carefully to reveal a plain looking desk housing a server and computer setup that, despite being old, looks well taken care of. In the open area beneath the desk is a generator with a plethora of wires winding around up into the computer, the server, and into a jack in the wall to further the power source. Beside it all is a table full of medical tools that haven’t been used or washed in ages and are most certainly the worst looking things in this room. McCree pays them no mind and instead focuses on the computer. Miraculously it works when he presses the _on_ switch, the screen display, a solid piece of glass rather than the hard light renders they’re privy to nowadays, flickers to life with some effort. Data fills the screen, washing over it like a waterfall of code before it stops and a large empty rectangle appears in the middle asking for a password.

“Of course…” McCree sighs, putting his gun away. “Don’t know why I thought it’d be that easy.”

 

⭐️

 

“What do you think this place was used for?”

Hanzo turns from the wreckage of cages he’s been staring at for far too long to look at Genji across the room, shining his flashlight across large shipping cargo boxes dulled in color. He isn’t looking at Hanzo when he asks the question, eyes glued to the rusted crates as he searches for a way to open them. Some are stacked on top of one another, others are turned longways, leaning against walls at an angle.

“They called it a warehouse, so I assume for storage.”

“But storing what?” Genji presses, biting his lip. “Why were they sending Hoshi here?”

Hanzo wishes he had the answers, it would clearly put his own mind at ease as well, but he has nothing. He can guess and theorize all he wants, but that might make him worry further. Instead, Hanzo keeps quiet and faces back to the cages in mangled piles, shining his flashlight over the metal.What were they storing? Monsters, given the way the cages look, the claw marks marring the floors. Monsters, experiments, whatever else they thought to hide. He knows what Genji is thinking; why this, why here of all places and not another secret cave in a valley. The thought would make his skin crawl if it weren’t already, electrified and buzzing. Little pinpricks up and down his left arm that he’s been trying to ignore, and he can’t tell if it’s apprehension or something else. It’s gone numb a few times since their arrival here, once climbing up the mountain side where he found the vents and he slid a ways back down. Hanzo clips his flashlight back onto his uniform to rub at his arm as if it’ll make the pinpricks go away. He’s caught Genji fidget occasionally as well, scratching the back of his neck, rolling his shoulders back, placing a hand to his lower back as if it aches. They need to talk about it but not here, not now despite the urgency of it. They’re looking for something, possibly someone, any evidence that might lead to the end of this fiasco that’s already gone far too long for Hanzo’s liking. The fact that their tattoos are reacting to this place is a distraction for now.

“Hey,” Genji calls, bringing Hanzo’s attention back to him. “One of these doors are loosened, give me a hand?”

Hanzo nods and makes his way over, mindful of his surroundings. Genji’s sheathed his sword for now, both hands pulling at a bent cargo door to try and shake it free. Hanzo, being just a head taller, reaches up on his tiptoes to pull from the top as his brother tugs around the middle and to the side. The metal groans under their ministrations until it pops looser, the hinges giving way and they’re able to open it proper. Genji flashes his light in first and catches a strange, lumpy mass shoved far into the back. With a second light on it, they are able to discern it’s a pile of bags and Genji moves closer to them. He almost doesn’t need to open one of them up to see what’s inside; the smell is foul in the corner, the bags made for bodies, but he does anyway, he wants to know who it is. Pulling his face mask up over his nose Genji unzips the bag and is met with an onslaught of the smell of rot and a decomposing body. The face is unrecognizable at this point and the clothes are filthy, but not enough to hide the Shimada symbol on the arm of their uniform.

“Hanzo…” Genji looks over his shoulder to where his brother is standing near the opening, flashlight steady. “These are our people.”

There’s a heavy pause. “All of them?”

“I’m not digging through body bags Hanzo.”

“Check a few more.”

Genji clicks his tongue in annoyance and turns back to the bag he has open, zips it shut so the smell of rot doesn’t build. Gingerly he moves it out of the way to get to another closest to him. He unzips the bag just enough to see the Shimada symbol on the arm of the uniform before closing it up. Another, and another, and another until Genji gets up from the floor and leaves the crate in a hurry, brushing shoulders past Hanzo.

“They’re all ours,” he nearly growls, anger seeping into his words as he tugs the face mask down. “This is where Hoshi was suppose to dump the bodies from the cave so we wouldn’t find them.”

Hanzo follows him with his eyes, looks back into the cargo hold where the body bags lay slumped together in a heap. It’s unacceptable; unacceptable for it to be happening, for it to have even happened at all. It’s going to be unacceptable to the families Hanzo is going to have to visit after this is all over and explain to them why they haven’t seen their loved ones in over a month. The grip on Hanzo’s light tightens, pushing himself away from the cargo to follow Genji in earnest.

“I’m going back to the Estate.”

Genji stops in his tracks, spins around on his heels. “What? Right now?” Hanzo nods. “Are you _insane_?”

“You stay here with McCree and find out as much as you can --”

“You’re not going back _alone_. We have traitors in our home, look at what they’ve been hiding, and you want to face them by yourself without a plan?”

“I never said I didn’t have a plan,” Hanzo folds his arms over his chest.

“Do you?”

There is a pause, awkward, where Hanzo fidgets from one foot to the next and settles his gaze on the floor.

“This is twice in two days you have gone to do something without a plan, that’s unlike you,” Genji says, almost teasingly but the expression on his face holds firm, serious. “What’s going on?”

“ _This_ , for one,” Hanzo gestures around them. “Father didn’t exactly train us for mutiny within our own ranks.”

It feels a lot like when their father died, the slow sinking feeling into icy water, drowning. It’s overwhelming, everyone around him is counting on him to lead them proper the way their father did before him and the stress, the responsibility of it all is dizzying. Except several years ago people’s lives weren’t in danger, _their_ lives weren’t in danger, they weren’t teaming up with a werewolf and a harpy trying to find proof that their own advisors were against them. Hanzo can feel his heart start to pick up speed and twist in his chest, his throat seizing as he tries to take in long, even breaths so Genji doesn’t see just how panicked he’s feeling. It isn’t like they can just take the day off and relax, Genji dragging him to Hanzo’s favorite places with the promise of a nice meal on him. They have to finish this, they have to weed out the poison and Hanzo is itching to take action but much like their hotel fiasco he hasn’t an idea how.

“We’ll figure it out Hanzo, but not split up,” Genji puts a hand on his shoulder and it feels heavier than it should be. “After we finish investigating this area we’ll go from there; hopefully this place will yield something.”

“Unfortunately, you will be doing no such thing.”

The voice is sudden, unannounced but familiar if only a little. It’s followed by the telltale sound of a gun cocking, bullet ready and loaded. The two snap their attention towards the sound and the owner of the voice, a lanky, thin shadow lurking between the mess of cages. Genji flashes his light up at the figure, other hand reaching for his short sword as Hanzo goes for his bow but the gun steadies itself on Genji, and Hanzo stops short. His brother continues, sword halfway out of it sheath until Hanzo has to put a vice grip  on his wrist to get him to stop.

Daichi, the Elder who had been seen at the tunnels in the South orchestrating his own plan, tuts loudly at Hanzo, an almost disappointed expression on his face.

“Weapons down, if you would. You don’t want to get blood everywhere, do you?” He tilts his head up at the ceiling, eyes still boring down at the two brothers. “The scent might get something a little crazy, hm?”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Genji spits, one hand still wrapped around the hilt of his sword but he’s since stopped removing it.

“Cleaning up some unfortunate loose ends,” he casts his gaze to Hanzo. “You had such promise, Hanzo, but you just _had_ to poke around where you didn’t belong with your errant little brother. Such a waste.”

“Promise for what?” Hanzo asks, not taking his hand off Genji. “Or did you forget I was in charge.”

“You could have been more than that, more than what your Father left you, left us all with.”

“That being?” Hanzo narrows his gaze.

“We are a dying breed. A hunting clan? Have you seen how the world is changing? People are treating these things as if they are people, _equals_ , letting them walk our streets without fear. Our numbers have dropped, your bounties dwindled --”

“So you partnered with people like Talon to stay _relevant_?” Genji scoffs.

“For the betterment of the clan, yes,” Daichi looks down the bridge of his nose at him. “Not that you would understand that.”

“ _I_ decide what is best for the Shimada Clan,” Hanzo butts in, tugging Genji a little ways behind him. “Not you, not any of the Elders. Talon is poisonous.”

“No,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “No, no. They are endless potential; times are changing and so must we. It’s what’s best for the clan and I thought you of all people would understand that Hanzo. Perhaps if it hadn’t been for your little disgrace of a brother putting different ideas into your head.”

Genji smirks behind Hanzo, always proud to be a thorn in the Elders’ side.

“You are so much like your father, right down to bringing home a beast of a monster. I told Yori we should have gotten rid of you like we did your mother before you poisoned Hanzo’s mind the way she did Sojiro’s.”

That wipes the smile off Genji’s face. The hand around his short sword tightens almost painfully, the leather of his gloves whining as the hand twists around the handle. Hanzo’s fingers twitch around Genji’s wrist, the idea of letting him go a tempting offer. Genji can have his sword out and at the enemy’s throat before Hanzo has an arrow knocked and ready, but Hanzo knows a bait when he sees one. True as it may be, Daichi wouldn’t bring it up without a reason; that reason being to goad them.

“Enough poison in the tea to go unnoticed, harmless to humans but quite deadly to dragons.”

Hanzo’s grip on Genji slips as his brother surges forward, but he’s quick to bring him back grabbing at his shoulder and forcing him back. He puts himself between him and Daichi, gun steady on Genji at the sudden movement, but Genji fights against him.

“You _monster_ , you **_monster_ ** !” Genji screams, voice near hysterics. “You son of a bitch, _I’ll kill you_!”

Hanzo pushes back against him, an arm coming to wrap around his middle and feels the strange heat wafting off Genji’s back like fire. His left arm is pulsing with energy, pinpricks from his shoulder down to the tips of his fingers, hot and sharp. It’s worse than when they were in the valley, worse still than in the tunnels, as if he can feel the tattoo move and slither across his arm, a tangible being. It mimics the very emotion that fills him up, the white hot anger towards Daichi, towards the Elders, people he should’ve been able to trust and rely on but Genji was right, he’d been right even in their youth when he defied them and argued and Hanzo hadn’t listened. Their father trusted them, the people who killed his wife and Gods, how long had they been sticking their fingers into Talon’s poisonous little pie?

“Stop,” Hanzo says quietly to Genji, still fighting furiously against him. “ _Stop_. Not now.”

Genji makes a wordless cry in response fueled by frustration, anger, and tapered off with something akin to heartbreak.

 

Below, McCree hears the echo of Genji’s screams. He snaps his attention away from the computer to look down the dark hallway. There’s nothing to see but he feels something creeping down from the dark, a hot energy that’s become familiar. It raises his hackles, his wolf attentive and curious. He doesn’t have time to dawdle anymore. Turning back to the computer, he stops the video he’s watching; it’s a blurry, grainy old recording of the room he’s sitting in where he can barely make out a thin, graceful figure with blinding red hair, lab coat stained with an equal hue as they start towards a hidden figure who’s been thrashing the entire time against their restraints. Plucking the portable drive from the machine, McCree pockets it in his pack and starts his way back up the hallway. They’re going to want what he found.

 

Genji sees red, a splash of it across his vision and while Hanzo is telling him to calm down, not here, not yet, he can’t let it go, he won’t. His back feels like it’s burning and he feels like he’s teetering on the edge of letting it consume him. Daichi is standing there with his gun out, a self satisfied smirk painting his face as if he has the upperhand and if it weren’t for Hanzo holding him back he’d be dead.

“Yori had faith in you though, Hanzo. He believed that if it came down to it, you would do what needed to be done if Genji stepped out of line,” he sounds skeptical, unbelieving of Yori’s faith. “He thought you would be able to do what was best for the clan, but he severely overestimated you.”

Hanzo’s grip tightens on Genji’s forearm, head turned to glare at Daichi. “I _am_ doing what is best for us, it just isn’t in your favor.”

Genji can feel Hanzo’s energy through the hand on his arm, the electrifying heat of his anger. He’s put himself squarely between himself and Daichi now, protective as he is, staring down the barrel of a gun.

“And _that_ is why I’m here,” the older man sighs. In English, he adds, “To take care of you and your little lap dog.”

It’s then Genji remembers McCree is still here, possibly no longer in the basement because there’s no way he didn’t hear them earlier. He settles a little in Hanzo’s hold to glance around the area quickly and catches the swift blur of shadow that Genji can only hope is McCree and not someone else Daichi brought along.

“With just a gun?” Hanzo scoffs.

“It’s amazing how much one bullet can do.”

There’s the hard _click_ sound of a gun cocking, loud in the thick silence of the warehouse.

“You best be good with that aim.” McCree chimes in, voice emanating from behind a cargo crate.

Genji can see the glint of his gun against the flashlights out of the corner of his eye and then it’s gone again. In a flash, McCree is at Daichi’s flank, gun at the ready and as if Daichi were waiting for him he turns his attention readily towards him. McCree fires first, six rapid fire shots, three connecting at the leg, hip, and arm, messing up Daichi’s shot that looks aimed more towards the heart and ends up lower at the stomach. Daichi falters backwards, smug, self satisfied grin still smeared across his face as he drops his gun and books towards the tunnel leading in.

“ _Jesse_!” Genji shouts, pushing past Hanzo to get to him.

With his hands free, Hanzo knocks an arrow and fires blindly, missing as Daichi jerks to the side. He breathes in, out, again, slower this time as he knocks a sonic arrow and takes his time. There’s much space between him and Daichi, he and the tunnel opening, and he’s just at the edge when Hanzo fires, arrow connecting with his left shoulder. He falters again, almost falling to his hands but recovers none too gracefully. Hanzo doesn’t follow immediately and instead turns to face Genji and McCree, leaning back against a broken piece of cargo.

“Go!” Genji says, looking over his shoulder. “I’ll be right behind you. Don’t let him get away.”

Hanzo nods, taking another moment to look over Jesse who nods to him in return. Leaning down to pocket Daichi’s weapon, he runs off, following his still fresh trail up the sloped tunnel, following the drops of blood up.

Genji has his hands over the wound, pressing down despite McCree’s small protests, short sword forgotten on the floor where he’d been standing earlier.

“Keep pressure on it.” He asks, voice on edge and airy. “Are you alright, is this -- you’ve had worse right?”

“I….” McCree wheezes, squeezing his eyes shut. “I don’t think so.”

“Sure you have,” Genji half chuckles, looking up from the wound to McCree’s face. He’s sweating and a little pale under the dim flashlight, and he finds it strange that he’s reacting like this to a single silver bullet. “You’ll be fine, you’ll be alright, I will call Oni for medical assistance, he can stitch you right up.”

McCree lets out another pained whine, his knees shaking as he starts to lower himself to the ground. Genji stays with him the whole way down, hands wet and sticky with blood. McCree’s flesh hand is weakly over his own, the metal one fishing around for his pack as Genji keeps mumbling that he’s going to be alright over and over and --

“It wasn’t silver.”

Genji glances up at McCree, eyes darting back to the bullet wound. “What are you talking about?”

McCree wheezes again, a pained growl growing in the back of his throat. Genji shifts so that the flashlight clipped to his uniform shines directly onto the wound.

_It’s amazing how much one bullet can do._

All the air seems to leave Genji’s lungs, the entirety of the room, as Genji fixates on the dark, nearly black liquid coating his hands.

“Genji… I need you to listen to me real close, m’kay?”

All the air rushes out of him at once. “Jesse --”

“I need you to _listen_ ,” McCree stresses, halfway growls as he finds his pack and shoves the whole thing at Genji. “Inside my bag is something real important, something that’ll help. I need you to take it to Dr. Angela Zeigler.”

“No, Jesse I,” he swallows down a hard knot in his throat, hands shaking against the other. “This will take time, right? It took months in the recordings, you will be fine until then, you’re coming with me.”

McCree shakes his head weakly, pressing his prosthetic against Genji’s chest. “That ain’t something I’m willing to risk. Go find Angela --”

“And leave you here?” Genji’s voice is wet, desperate. “No, _no_ I won’t I --”

“ _Genji_ !” McCree’s voice is rough and equally desperate. His hand comes up to grab the back of Genji’s neck to keep his attention steady and focused. “I found something real important downstairs, something that’ll help both me and Gabe, but you _must_ get it to Angie. If anyone can help me, it’s her.”

They fall quiet, save for the small, hiccupy breathes Genji’s trying to calm. He begins to nod, slowly, understanding what’s being said but he doesn’t want to leave McCree, not here, not alone. The screech of the harpy echoes from outside, reminding him otherwise, but it might make things worse.

“Sugar,” McCree squeezes gently at the nape of his neck. “You can’t be here. Please, _please_ go.”

Genji shuts his eyes and begins to shake his head, trying to keep a rational thought process. This won’t be like the time in the woods during the full moon where McCree underestimated himself, this won’t be a night’s worth of trouble. He remembers the recordings, how out of touch and out of character his teammates were, how they had to cage them like wild animals and Genji _won’t_ do that, he won’t condemn McCree to this place like some experiment left before him. Like Amélie. Dr. Angela Zeigler, a name he remembers scribbled on the bottom McCree’s medical exams. Dr. Angela Zeigler; he mentally repeats the name like a mantra he can’t forget. Genji tries to center himself around it, around the promise of something good to help McCree, even Gabriel.

“Genji.”

“Okay,” he manages, pausing to swallow another knot. With a steadier breath he repeats, “Okay. I will find Dr. Zeigler and I’m going to come back for you, I promise.”

“It better be with a cure or a bullet, don’t come back with neither.”

Genji opens his mouth to respond but is interrupted by the sound of harsh scratching against metal, the telltale screech of the harpy coming down one of the vents. McCree removes his hand from the other’s neck and gives him another shove at the center of his chest.

“Go,” McCree stresses. “ _Now_.”

His legs almost protest as he gets up, bloody hands clutching the bag McCree had handed him. His legs refuse to move as he stands above the other, looking down at him, one hand moving to cover his bullet wound, the other clenching in pain. He doesn’t want to leave him but he forces himself to when he hears Gabriel’s screams closer than before. It’s shadow against shadow but he sees them, two glowing red eyes shining out of the broken vent. His screeches are mind numbing in such a space, echoing loud and warped. Genji backs away slowly, grabbing his short sword off the ground before turning and running in earnest. The harpy cries out and launches itself off the edge of the vent, swooping down low as he gives chase to Genji.

“ _Gabe_!” McCree shouts, partially in pain. “Gabe, don’t!”

He’s going far too fast to stop on a dime now and allows himself to hurtle towards Genji as he reaches the tunnel entrance, slamming his legs into the other’s back. Genji is shoved forward and lands clumsily on his hands. He twists around to look at Gabriel who has finally taken pause to look back at McCree, hovering over Genji as he does. The smell of blood is thick, but beyond that, beneath the copper tang that drives him near insanity he smells it, recognition clear across his body language. He stiffly turns to face Genji on the ground, hackles raised, teeth bared, eyes boring holes into him, a silent demand.

“I’m going to help him,” Genji chokes out, holding the bag tight to his chest. “I’m going to find Angela Zeigler.”

Gabriel takes a step back, anger still prominent in his demeanor but he’s giving Genji space to get up and leave. He does, slowly, eyes on Gabriel as he walks backwards into the tunnel and doesn’t turn until the harpy is no longer within his sights.

Genji runs, he runs until the cold air stings in his lungs and eyes, he runs until he thinks his legs might give, knees wobbly, he runs until he hears the roar of something unfamiliar in the distance. Standing in the middle of the deserted village, Genji looks off into the early evening and sees a bright flash of blue energy coming from the North. A burst of heat blossoms across his back in response and Genji feels his vision blur for a second. He takes a moment to come back from it before he starts to run again.

The air is like static when he finds Hanzo amidst the wash of blue light emanating a few feet in front of him. It dances up his body like pinpricks and raises the hair on his arms, the nape of his neck. The wind is a flurry of gusts from a large, blue orb from which the light is coming from, kicking the snow up like dust around them, whipping the dead leaves and twigs from the ground. Hanzo looks in a trance, unmoving as he stares ahead at the orb. Genji takes a careful step forward, looking to Hanzo for any sort of sign, at the whirling blue orb. His back feels like it’s on fire.

“Hanzo?”

Everything slows suddenly, the wind, the snow lifted into the air, the orb which now Genji can see isn’t an orb at all. Two large blue serpents swirl slowly around a corpse floating between them, attention now on Genji. They bare their teeth a moment until something like recognition flashes across their expressions. Hanzo, too, has turned to face him though he doesn’t look all there, eyes a glowing white and otherworldly. The left sleeve of his uniform is torn just like before, his tattoo glowing the same white as his eyes and it’s almost blinding to look at him.

The snow floats gently back to the ground, the leaves and twigs and rocks settle back down as well. The dragons simmer down, letting the corpse of what Genji can only assume is Daichi fall without preamble below them, and weave a path towards Genji, slow and graceful. He splits his attention between them and Hanzo, who hasn’t said a word and is just staring curiously at Genji; the expression so foreign and soft on his brother’s face it’s almost unrecognizable. The dragons begin to circle around Genji, one keeping a far outer ring, eyes glued to him, while the other is much closer, every so often nudging against his back and waist. They’re huge, their heads about the size of his torso at least, and their rings loop around him, overlapping a few times. He wonders idly if he can do something like this, and perhaps if it were a better time, if he was in a better headspace he’d try. As he looks up to Hanzo again, he finds him still staring at him quietly, solemnly though his nose has started bleeding.

Genji brings a hand up to his own. “Hanzo….”

As if mimicking the movement instead of doing it of his own accord, Hanzo puts a hand mechanically up underneath his nose and smears the thick drop of blood above his upper lip. His vacant expression turns to something akin to worry. His eyes stop glowing just before they roll up and close, body sagging and slumping into the snow. Genji moves to catch him, but he’s too far and he hesitates as the dragons disappear into soft blue particles.

“Hanzo!”

Aside from the bloody nose, Hanzo looks unharmed. Genji lifts him up enough to rest his head on his knees, putting the back of his hand on his forehead. Unlike when this happened to Genji, Hanzo’s temperature doesn’t feel any different, albeit a little clammy, though his skin prickles when he touches it much like static cling. Out of paranoia he checks his pulse, and when he feels it beating rapid pace against his two fingers Genji is only mildly worried.

Dragging him back to the car isn’t a problem. With McCree’s bag slung over one shoulder and Hanzo’s bow on the other, Genji hoists his brother up over one shoulder in a fireman’s carry. There hasn’t been a sound from the warehouse since he left and he isn’t entirely sure if he could even hear it if there was. Presumably not if it’s been kept secret for this long. Still, Genji can’t help but look back every so often at the great mountain, hoping that McCree will be alright.

 

⭐️

 

Gabriel won’t go near him. His blood is like fire in his veins, the heavy white noise in the back of his mind loud and clear. McCree’s blood is in the air, mixed with something else, something poison and the mixture between the two is sending different signals. The pained whimpers sends another. The muffled growls and half shouts into his serape, another. The way McCree is doubled over into a fetal position, arms crossed over the wound on his stomach, knees up, head buried into his serape, it sends a burst of signals to Gabriel that are all too familiar but he isn’t in the right headspace, he doesn’t trust himself.

In for three.

This is the exact thing he wanted to avoid. It’s why they’re here. It’s why Gabriel is this rotting carcass held together by science and poison and smoke and why McCree shouldn’t be. He took that shot for him all those years ago and to this day Gabriel doesn’t regret it; he’s old and had his fun and there’s so much life in McCree, so much potential that it’s hard to try and regret it. He endured the screaming, the crying, the half effort punches and the tantrum McCree pulled when he found out, and it’s funny that Gabriel feels very much the same now. He wants to sink his claws into something, something soft and fleshy but there isn’t anything around that isn’t McCree, that isn’t that Shimada, but he thinks it might help if he thrashes what’s left of this shithole.

Hold for one.

That exacerbates things. His blood is boiling, red hot, and he needs to relax. He wishes, in some strange corner of his mind, that Jack was here. Not that he’d know what to do, but his presence was always a comfort, even through their rougher patches in their later years. Coupled with Ana, more calm and level-headed than the other two combined, they’d be unstoppable. Maybe if they hadn’t spent so much time bickering over the United Nations and focused on their internal troubles they’d still have that, they’d still have Overwatch and Blackwatch and he’d still have his team and Ana and Jack. He’d have McCree, whole and better put together and away from all of this. Maybe they’d even have the Shimadas. Maybe.

Out for five.

Gabriel breathes like this for a good five minutes, holed up in the ventilation shaft he’d crawled in from. Eventually the feathers retract or whither away into smoke, the blood stops rushing in his ears, the white noise dulls and the world seems a little less red when Gabriel opens his eyes.

Slowly, cautiously, he makes his way towards McCree. He makes sure he’s heard when he moves so he doesn’t surprise McCree who seems too wrapped up in his own pain to pay attention to his surroundings, and Gabriel can’t blame him. That kind of pain isn’t something one forgets easily, like a burning fire ripping through your insides. It might be a little different for McCree; he’s a shapeshifter whereas Gabriel merely twisted his own figure. Not that the explosion at the U.N. helped any.

“McCree?” Gabriel rumbles, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t flinch, but he doesn’t look up at him either. If anything he curls in on himself further. “ _Mijo_ , I’m here….”

McCree lets out a sad little moan that morphs into a growl and buries his face further into his serape. He’s holding together well, Gabriel can say that much. Perhaps McCree’s just that tough, or perhaps Talon has perfected their brew and wouldn’t that be just like them to make it almost indetectable so they can start slipping it into everyday things. They wouldn’t know it until it was too late and that’s exactly what they’d want. It isn’t without pain, not with McCree’s face twisting the way it is, the vice grip around his middle, the telltale twitches under his skin, but he isn’t screaming, he isn’t lashing out, he still has his wits about him but Gabriel’s curious just how long it will take. The transformations years ago took months, two at the very least and all he has to rely on is Genji Shimada finding Dr. Zeigler. A sound rumbles from his chest, displeased. It’s all they have to hope on, so they’ll make do.

They don’t have much of a choice.

“M’sorry….” McCree manages between clenched teeth.

Gabriel doesn’t know or understand what exactly he’s sorry for. If anything, he should be the one apologizing. He roped him into this unnecessarily, and though his goal at the beginning had been to ease him into the conspiracy of it all Gabriel hadn’t quite meant for McCree to follow him this deep. Not deep enough that he’d get hurt. He never intended for this. He didn’t intend for a lot of things, to be fair and yet here they are.

Squeezing McCree’s shoulder gently, Gabriel tucks himself a little closer, breathing shallow, keeping himself level. “You have… nothing to be sorry for.”

McCree whines, a wet little cry, and pushes into the touch just a little. “M’sorry,” he repeats, shaking. “M’sorry.”

 

⭐️

 

It’s been about an hour and a half since Genji dragged his brother to the car, then drove said car a few miles away from the mountain. He can still see it from the back window, looming in the distance, but he didn’t want to be as close as they had been just in case -- in case what? In case McCree gives chase? He changes early? In case Gabriel changes his mind and goes after them? It’s a myriad of things jostled in Genji’s ever racing mind, but they’re here now, unbothered and safe for the most part.

Hanzo is strewn across the backseat, head in Genji’s lap, unconscious. The static feeling on his skin has died down, as has the heat across Genji’s back; the energy is still there, settled in the quiet interior of the car, but it is far calmer than it had been when they arrived. Genji hasn’t moved from his spot since he parked and climbed into the back. McCree’s pack is on the floor of the car, leaning against Genji’s leg. He hasn’t looked through it, though he did swipe Daichi’s gun from Hanzo and slipped it in there. His mind is too much of a mess to process much else. Head cradled on the edge of the window, Genji keeps his eyes shut and tries to focus on his breathing. He focuses on the sight of Hanzo’s dragons, an impressive sight, more impressive than his own summoning he thinks. They recognized him, the one at his back almost asking for him to manifest his own dragon. Genji wonders what would’ve happened if he had. He focuses on the way Hanzo looked at him, glowing tattoo and white eyes, and soft, solemn expression on his face that Genji can say without a doubt looked out of place on his face. Genji raises a hand to touch the nape of his neck where the head of his tattoo kisses. When things have settled and this business with Talon is over, he and Hanzo can train in earnest without the Elders breathing down their necks about how they’re cursed.

Genji doesn’t focus on what Daichi said about their mother.

It’s another half hour until Hanzo starts to wake. Genji looks down at him, concern written on his face as Hanzo blinks, eyes back to normal but unfocused.

“Hanzo?”

He groans, shutting his eyes and rolling over onto his side as Genji shifts beneath him. “What happened, where… where are we?”

His voice is rough, edged with confusion and Genji helps to steady him as he tries to sit up.

“In the car, a little ways from where we originally were.” He says, keeping a hand on Hanzo’s shoulder to make sure he’s steady. He wobbles a bit before leaning against the back seat, the heel of his hand digging in underneath his eye. Genji continues, “Your dragons manifested and you passed out.”

Hanzo stiffens and looks to his left arm, seemingly just now noticing his missing sleeve. The tattoo lays dormant and quiet, only a slight buzzing under his skin. He flexes his hand, twists his arm around, “I don’t remember.”

“You didn’t exactly look conscious,” Genji explains. “You were awake but… I don’t know, you didn’t seem like you.”

He continues to dig his heels into his eyes. “What about Daichi? The last thing I remember is…” he takes a moment to recollect, placing both hands into his lap. “I fired an arrow at him, and then nothing. Where is he?”

“Dead. Your dragons tore him to pieces.”

“Did they hurt you?”

Genji shakes his head. “No, no… I think they recognized me. They had a personality all their own.” He pauses, curling his legs up to his chest. “Hanzo, do you think we’re vessels?”

They fall into silence for a while. Vessels were a tricky thing, commonly confused with possession and even more commonly associated with witches. Whereas those possessed are at the whim of the spirit, vessels controlled the spirit, and while Hanzo and Genji hadn’t done much controlling of anything, they still had their wits about them. The tricky part is vessels could become possessed if they weren’t careful, which is what made them a possible target for hunters. They didn’t allow these spirits in, or perhaps they don’t remember, but it isn’t unheard of, though rare, that others can bestow spirits upon others be they willing.

“It’s possible,” Hanzo finally says. “Mother could have given them to us. We should keep it quiet though, for now.”

Genji nods in agreement.

“What about McCree?” He ducks to look out the windows to see if the man is outside, keeping watch. Instead he sees nothing and notices how tense Genji gets at the question. “What happened?”

He takes Daichi’s gun out of the pack and hands it to Hanzo. “I think Daichi was going to try and make our deaths look like an accident by shooting McCree with these.”

Hanzo’s brows furrow in a quiet question as he takes the weapon, looks it over, and a wave of realization washes over him when he releases the clip and looks at the bullets. He slips the clip back in and glances up at Genji, licks his dry, cracked lips.

“We can’t just leave him there.” The way Hanzo says it is different from how Genji meant it. Hanzo sees a potential threat and while he can’t blame him entirely, Genji seems to bristle at what his brother is insinuating.

“We aren’t going back to kill him Hanzo!” He snatches the gun from him and nearly throws it back into the bag. “McCree found something in the basement that will help him, I just need to find someone called Angela Zeigler and get it to her.”

Hanzo opens his mouth to say more, but closes it just before anything comes out. He wants to push the issue, but now is not the time. Not when Genji looks so desperately on edge, not with everything that’s come to light. Instead he puts a hand at the back of Genji’s neck to ground him, amber eyes wide and a little too wild.

“Okay, but we need to finish our business first. No more running around, we go straight to the source,” says Hanzo calmly.

“Yori?” Genji asks, and the other nods. “Do you have a plan?”

Hanzo grins a little, a tired little upturn on his lips. “I do. But I need you here with me, okay?”

Genji nods, slowly at first before his nod becomes more confident. “I’m with you. What did you have in mind?”

 

⭐️

 

It’s late into the night when Yori is called into the main area at the Elder’s Sanctuary. A visitor, the guard said, someone he won’t want to leave until morning. He assumes it’s a correspondent from Talon, and in all honesty it’s about goddamn time, he thinks. They’ve made great strides in the past few weeks alone, good enough to warrant an actual visit instead of a measly e-mail. All that’s left is getting Hanzo and Genji out of the way, and they’ll be golden. Or perhaps it’s Daichi, and though the thought is more a disappointing one at least he’ll have some good news, he hopes. If it isn’t, he’s beginning to wonder if he can even trust him. Offing him will be a loss, but not a big one; he tends to talk too much and focus on the little things far too often. Yori’s a big picture kind of guy, it’s what matters in the end.

What Yori isn’t expecting is Hanzo standing in the middle of the conference room, looming over a slumped body on the floor. The room is dark and Yori quickly goes to flip the lights on to a dim setting, enough to illuminate the head of obnoxious green hair the lifeless body is sporting. Beneath it is a small pool of blood, red and staining the immaculate floors but Yori can’t quite find it in him to care. Not when Genji Shimada is dead at his feet.

“Lord Shimada,” he finally greets, bowing slightly as he keeps his eyes greedily on Genji’s body. “What a surprise to see you. I was under the impression you were still dealing with what happened in the South.”

“You know I wasn’t in the South recently.” Hanzo keeps his chin up, his presence commanding. “Let’s talk about that.”

Yori tries to keep his ground, hands folded in front of him and standing tall. He has a head over Hanzo, but it doesn’t make the other any less intimidating. Taking pause, Yori really spends a moment to look at Hanzo. He’s disheveled, hair undone from his ponytail and dark circles beneath his eyes, there’s dried blood on his hands and some staining his uniform, both sleeves intact. Whatever went on in the West was not kind to him, but fratricide rarely is.

“Yes, let’s.” Yori decides, looking over his shoulder at the guard who had woken him. “Fetch us some tea.”

The guard bows and exits without a word, leaving the two men to their conversation. Yori steps closer to Hanzo, keeping a wide berth around him and Genji. He isn’t sure where they stand quite yet, he might know their game and he might even be willing to listen, given Genji’s lifeless body on the ground and the literal blood on his hands. That doesn’t mean they’re on the same page, however, and Hanzo is still a dangerous man.

“Daichi?”

“Dead,” answers Hanzo. “Genji’s doing.”

“Hm, shame.” He sounds bored. “I’m assuming he talked about our little side endeavour?”

“He did. Not at great length, but enough to peak my interest,” he folds his arms over his chest. “I understand the risk of having brought it to me sooner, but it would’ve saved a lot of time and trouble if you had.”

Yori perks up at this. “You are interested?”

Hanzo motions to his brother. “Is this not proof enough?”

He chuckles, looking down at Genji with a twisted little smile. “I knew that brat wouldn’t go for this. Small-minded and soft, but you -- oh I _knew_ my faith in you hadn’t been misplaced Hanzo. And Daichi said you didn’t have it in you to kill your own kin for the betterment of the Shimada Clan.”

“Speaking of,” Hanzo steps over Genji, putting himself between him and Yori. “What sort of benefits are Talon offering that you would ally yourselves with them behind my back?”

Yori is taken aback a bit, the bite in Hanzo’s voice clear and sharp. “I meant no disrespect in keeping this from you, Lord Shimada,” he’s laying it on thick and knows it, bowing to condone his humility. “But I wasn’t sure if you would agree to such a deal. Your father had forbidden all talks with Talon because of their somewhat… wayward morals, shall we put it, hm?”

“Such as?”

“Myself and a few choice others on the Council, we understood where the world was headed and we, as a hunting clan, wouldn’t be apart of it for very much longer. These _monsters_ are being let into our cities, our homes, and without fear! They are riding the wave of sympathy the omnics were given after the war; and yes, there are those who still hate and distrust them as there are those who feel the same towards monsters but they are fewer now than they had been before. Soon we will be outspoken, outnumbered, and out of business.” Yori starts to walk back around the long, crescent shaped table to his seat in the middle, fishing for something beneath it.

“Talon came to us with a proposition that your father shot down. They had begun experimenting on a core group of monsters that would put the fear back into the hearts of people, wild, savage things with no consciousness, no remorse. It was all contained within their facilities and, once perfected, they would release them near cities and towns and people would have no choice but to flock back to us.

“Once Sojiro passed, we were able to slip building permits under the radar to Talon for them to build their facilities closer to Hanamura, though there were complications. Not many are still functional within Japan, but we still keep in touch; we are benefactors after all.”

Hanzo, silent and unmoving throughout, tilts his head to one side, staring Yori down as if he were being hunted himself. “So this is all a ploy to stay relevant?”

“In a matter of speaking, yes. The Shimada Empire will not be brought down by some rhetoric about love and peace, whether it be from that omnic group in Nepal or elsewhere.”

“And you took it upon yourself to do this without my knowing?” Hanzo asks, stare just as intense as it was when Yori entered the room.

He falters again, the tablet in hand almost slipping to the floor. “Ah, again I… meant no disrespect keeping it from you Lord Shimada, we just needed to be sure you weren’t sharing the same ideals as your father or… Genji.”

“As it shows, I don’t. And from this moment forward, don’t _undermine_ me again or you won’t live to apologize next time, Yori.”

“Of course! Of course, Lord Shimada. Here,” Yori hands the tablet over to Hanzo over the desk, the surface lighting up to their touch. “I’ve kept in contact with our Talon operative through this. Feel free to read it over after you’ve gotten some rest, hm?”

The sliding door opens and Yori looks up to see one of the kitchen staff come in with a tray of tea. She stops about two steps in, reading the tense mood, seeing Genji on the floor, but Yori waves her in. Quietly, she comes over and sets the tray down on the table a little ways from the two men and begins to pour. They say nothing in her presence, and she makes quick work of the tea as to not become bothersome. She hands a cup to Hanzo first, who accepts it after a moment of looking through the files listed on the tablet, and then to Yori who takes it readily. Bowing low to both of them, she takes the tray and leaves a little quicker than she arrived, sliding the door shut with haste.

“Is this all of the information you have between you and Talon?” Hanzo asks, eyeing Yori over the tablet.

He nods, answering, “It is,” before taking a nice, long sip of his tea.

Hanzo watches as he does, attention no longer on the tablet but solely on Yori as he drinks. He bides his time, taking a small drink of his own tea, eyes never leaving the other man. It’s only when he starts to cough a little and clear his throat loudly when Hanzo sports a little smile and puts his attention right back onto the tablet. The coughing gets louder, intermittent between small choking noises, but it isn’t until Yori lets out a pained, strained gasp that he finally figures out something is wrong.

“What… _what is this_?”

“It’s called revenge.” Genji says from the floor, eyes glaring up at Yori on his pedestal.

The shock and horror plastered across Yori’s face as he gets up from the animal blood spilling across the floor is delightful, so much so Genji wishes he had his phone to take a picture and remember it for years to come. He brushes himself off, smearing the blood on the already ruined uniform, face split with the most wicked of grins as he watches Yori choke.

“Awh, what’s the matter? Dragon got your tongue?” Genji chides, coming up behind Hanzo to peer over his shoulder. “This was easier than I thought, who knew killing me was the deal breaker.”

“That’s not funny,” Hanzo says, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye.

“I know it isn’t, I was the one playing the dead body,” he mumbles, putting his attention back on Yori. He has one hand clawing at his throat and the other on the table, face turning all shades of red and purple. “What _is_ a little funny, though, is this.”

“The irony is fitting.”

Genji sidles around Hanzo and up to the desk, planting his elbows on top as he holds his head up with hands folded under his chin. “It really is. You know, when you send someone to kill people perhaps you should send someone who doesn’t talk so much? Particularly one who brags about murdering our mother.”

“G-Gu… _guards_!” Yori barely manages.

“Oh, you want the guards?” Genji tilts his head to one side. In a mocking, high pitched voice he yells for the guards, laughing something cruel when no one comes. “We’ve dealt with your watchman, Yori. We carved a little path for us to slip in. We coated the inside of your cup with a particular brand of poison I’m quite fond of using myself, and we are going to watch you die. And while I can’t speak for Hanzo, I am going to fucking enjoy watching you die.”

Yori is going to die here, he knows it as he knows the sky is blue and the Earth is round. He’s going to die slumped over the crescent moon desk that has been his pseudo throne for years, and the last thing he is ever going to see is the devil grinning through the body of a one Genji Shimada.

 

They deal with the rest of the known traitors, in-house and Talon agents alike. They restrain those who had been unwilling, to be dealt with at a later time, and by the end of the night, as the sun kisses the horizon, Hanzo and Genji have effectively cleaned house.

“You should rest.”

Hanzo says it, though they both look like they could use a good night’s sleep or two. Genji half heartedly laughs at the suggestion, washing his hands of blood.

“I need to start looking for that Dr. Zeigler woman.”

He hears Hanzo sigh behind him. Technically they still have more left to do, question those who were essentially blackmailed into helping with Talon’s mutiny, looking through and cataloguing everything in Yori’s tablet, figuring out what to send to the authorities so the government can begin taking care of Talon outside of Hanamura. But being friends of McCree and former Overwatch agents that are now possibly targets of Talon as well, Genji wants to get a headstart.

“Rest first, I’ll get someone to start fielding her. Hopefully by the time you’re awake we’ll know where she is and I’ll ready a plane for you,” Hanzo says, clapping a hand on the other’s shoulder.

Genji looks at him through the mirror, a little surprised. “We still aren’t out of the clear yet with this Talon business.”

“Paperwork, mostly. I can handle that. If we wait too long to help McCree…” Hanzo trails off, squeezing his shoulder. “I can handle everything here, you take care of him.”

There’s the flicker of a tiny, tired smile ghosting across Genji’s lips as he finishes washing his hands. “Thank you Hanzo.”

Genji bathes before he rests, the warm water doing little to relieve his nerves. His sleep is restless and all together he gets about two hours worth. Though the worry of their Clan is gone for the most part, he can’t stop thinking about McCree. He can’t help but take a little blame for what happened, roping him into this mess despite McCree having been in the thick of it well before Genji came along. When he leaves his room and asks about the progress of finding Angela Ziegler, the team assigned to it comes back with nothing and urge Genji to rest further.

Instead, he goes to see his parents.

Inside the main house they have a home shrine for both their mother and father. Hanzo is here often, tending to it after his morning meditation when he can, but Genji was always indifferent towards it. He would go with Hanzo to visit their graves twice a year, but rarely would he visit the home shrine. It picked at old wounds that one would hope would’ve healed since Mother’s passing, only to be reopened when Father died, and since Genji’s been scarce around this room. Removing his boots and coat, leaving them at the front, Genji enters and shuts the sliding door behind him. The room is decorated almost plainly compared to the rest of the Estate and the lighting kept dim, the long low table on the back wall holding two large picture frames of their father and mother respectively. Genji sets the bowl of sand between them and lights two sticks of incense before sliding them into the sand carefully.

It’s all so terribly formal for him; at the cemetery they leave flowers, bow their heads, and then Genji talks for hours about what they’ve been up to, sharing embarrassing stories about Hanzo to gravestones while he huffs and laughs about it. It starts out sad but Genji manages to make it less so, as if they were both away on a trip and they were talking with them on the phone. This, though more personal, is strange. Genji’s not a praying man, he doesn’t ask their ancestors for help or good fortune, but today he will and it won’t be for himself.

It’ll be for Hanzo as he trudges through the meticulous work of making sure everything is perfect and whole, or as whole as the Shimada Clan can be in this time of disarray. It’s in hopes that Talon won’t try, and succeed, in assassinating Hanzo while he’s gone to search for a doctor he isn’t sure is even alive anymore. It’s for Hanzo’s sanity and well being because he knows without Genji here to poke and prod he’ll barely get any rest, forget to eat.

It’ll be for McCree who needs the strength to overcome this. In hopes that he, too, will be safe when Genji returns with good news -- and gods does he pray it’s good news. That he’ll stay safe and hidden in that warehouse, not to cause trouble and bring the attention of hunters.

It’s for Gabriel, too, in hopes that he finds peace. That whatever McCree found in the basement will help him too and some normality can be restored yet.

And maybe a little prayer for himself; that he finds Dr. Zeigler, that she can help them, that Genji doesn’t come home empty handed and that thought alone allows a soft, choked noise leave his throat. He tries to swallow the growing knot but fails, letting loose a short cry that he muffles with the palm of his hand. For the first time in a long time, Genji feels like a lost child crying for his parents. Everything that has happened finally breaks and washes over him, and as he leans forward so that his forehead touches the cool mat lining the floor, Genji cries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, it's been a while - I'm really sorry for taking almost FOUR months on one chapter and I can't thank you all enough for your astounding patience! From here we have three more chapters to go and I hope to finish them in a more timely manner.
> 
> On the topic of home shrines for deceased relatives; while I did google for information about them I'm also grossly paranoid about getting anything culturally incorrect, so if anything is wrong regarding that /please/ feel free to correct me!
> 
> As always, feel free to hit me up on madamerioulette@tumblr/writscrib ❤
> 
> lindigo @ tumblr has spoiled us yet again with more fanart from chapter ten here! --> https://lindigo.tumblr.com/post/164363486098/a-gentle-mcgenji-for-a-sunny-day-scene-taken-from

**Author's Note:**

> So I haven't written anything in two years, and then Overwatch came out.
> 
> Comments & kudos are appreciated ♥ feel free to hit me up on madamerioulette@tumblr


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